


The Buck of Baldur's Gate (SoDr)

by Zhenta



Series: The Patchwork Soul [2]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2019-11-08 16:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 59
Words: 287,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17984843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhenta/pseuds/Zhenta
Summary: SoDr: Knowing that the Hooded Man is waiting for his chance to kidnap and torture her, Arowan is forced to remain under the protection of her charismatic sister. Unfortunately, the Hero of Baldur's Gate has a track record of murdering her siblings and Arowan doesn't trust her either. More untrustworthy still is Edwin, who remains determined to murder Dynaheir whatever the cost. COMPLETE





	1. The Accident

**Fifteen years ago:**

"Really, really?" the little girl squealed with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You can really make it pink?"

"If you hold still Imoen," Gorion smiled at his tiny daughter. The small girl stood up straight, hands by her sides, but she was practically vibrating with energy. She managed exactly three seconds of patience before she lifted a lock of her mousey hair to inspect it. He laughed. "I haven't even cast it yet."

"How long will it last?" she asked eagerly.

"Until I lift the spell," he replied. He was quite pleased with himself. It had taken him several days of research and experimentation on the Candlekeep cats to perfect his enchantment. There were hair potions which would do the same job, but they were less easily reversible and would require Imoen to sit still and not touch them for an hour. Whereas this charm, once completed, he could apply and lift at will. "Which I will do when I get home from my next trip away."

"Why do you have to go?" she whined.

"Some people are planning to do a very bad thing," explained Gorion patiently, "They want to hurt children. And I have to stop them."

"Will you see Mummy?"

The question made him flinch. He longed with all his heart to see Alianna again, but he feared what he would be forced to do if their paths crossed. She had left their mortal daughter to be raised by him in safety, but she had a very different fate in mind for her infant son by Bhaal.

Imoen's question distracted him as he started the incantation. He must have made a mistake or said something wrong. Perhaps thinking of the Bhaal cultists and their death rituals had slipped different words into his mouth. There was a sound like the striking of a hollow gong and all of the colour drained from the room.

As the ringing died down and the colours returned Gorion's howl must have shattered the peace of the gods themselves. Little Imoen's wish had been granted and her hair turned a vivid pink, but she would never see it.

Mortal-Imoen was dead and in the deepest catacombs of Candlekeep there lies an empty tomb etched with the words;

 

_Here lies Imoen, daughter of Gorion and Alianna._

_Imoen, my precious girl. My light, my jewel, my life. Were the soul of a mortal man payment enough I would give my own to bring you back._

_Farewell my little angel. Love is a light that never dims._

 

 

**Present Day:**

"See a recruitment officer and claim the glory of Caelar's crusade for yourself!" read Freya as she ascended the crypt's stairs toward daylight. They had just seen off the last of Sarevok's followers, but it had been a tedious mission as dungeon crawls went. "Ha! Chance would be a fine thing. If I put so much as a toe outside of this city the Hooded Git will have me. Fuck me, I'm bored."

"We were wondering..." one of the officers accompanying her ventured tentatively. "What do you reckon to this crusade? We were thinking of joining. After we've served our term with the Flaming Fist of course. We can leave at the end of the month. They say that it's double the pay."

"Sounds like a deal to me!" Freya laughed flippantly. Then she cocked her head to one side. "Mind you, double nothing is still nothing."

"Even _you_ aren't getting paid?" gasped the guard.

"Am I fuck!" answered Freya. "We're paid in loot. Why do you think I'm so pissed off that my thief didn't bother showing up? I bet those locked catacombs are packed with gemstones, if Coran weren't too busy cuckolding half the aristocracy of Baldur's Gate to help me get at them! Still the jewelled daggers off those skeletons ought to be worth something."

The guards exchanged a doubtful look. Freya pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Tell me you've been stripping the bodies," she growled. "You have actually collected some loot, right?"

"Well not exactly..."

"We were told in orientation not to..."

"Right!" barked Freya, her blonde head snapping up and grey eyes flashing. She drew her twin bastard swords and stomped down the stairs again. "Back we go!"


	2. Refuge

Light glinted from the glass goblet as it sailed through the air, missing Edwin's head by inches. He did not manage to dodge the wine inside it. Acrid ruby liquid splashed his face and robes, turning the Red Wizard even redder. His face was already burning with rage, and being soaked in Viconia's cheap, vinegary drink did not help. Neither did losing one of the only two glasses that the pair of them possessed. It struck the wall and shattered in a cascade of tinkling glass.

"I saved your life, ungrateful rivvil!" Viconia hissed through clenched teeth.

Edwin strode toward her, roughly shoving aside a wicker chair as he went. It was old and poorly constructed and it too disintegrated into a pile of splinters as it toppled over.

"I pay for this house and let you live here!" he retorted, squaring up to her. "While you eat my food and contribute, what, exactly?"

Viconia's lip curled mockingly at Edwin's description of their ghastly, rented dive as a 'house.' It was one smallish room above a fishmonger with a washbasin in one corner and a small kitchen in the other. Black mould crept along the ceiling from the constantly leaking roof that their landlord refused to fix. They had to store their food in their travelling packs rather than the cupboards. If they didn't, they were sure to lose it to the hordes of mice with whom they shared their home. Yet she had grown used to the stench and the rodents. Harder to endure was the company.

"It is not my fault!" she retorted. "I have tried to find work. Nobody will hire a drow!"

This was not the only problem. In the months that had passed since their settling in Baldur's Gate, the city had become overwhelmed with cheap, desperate labour. Some war or other in the North had displaced thousands of people and most of them had sought refuge within the great walls. Why offer a paying job to Viconia, when a dozen eager volunteers would do the work for free, just for the privilege of a roof over their head and a scrap of bread and cheese?

"You could at least do something to earn your keep! Maybe clean the house? Make dinner once in a while?" Edwin yelled.

"I am not your slave! You have no job either, you're just living off the gold you brought from Thay!" snapped Viconia defensively. "At least I'm _trying!_ "

"Might I remind you woman," retorted Edwin tersely, "That _I_ still have a mission to complete."

"Here we go. Dynaheir again!" Viconia groaned resentfully.

Edwin's brow furrowed. He had spent most of the last year pursuing the Rashemen witch and her feeble-minded bodyguard. Until recently Viconia had been lodging with her party in the Ducal Palace but a few doors down the hall from his target. Teaming up with her had been a golden opportunity. Yet their attempt to murder Dynaheir had failed when Viconia's party leader, Arowan, had stumbled upon the two of them in the witch's bedroom. The blasted drow had made their situation even worse with an ill-advised attempt on the Bhaalspawn's life, leading to their current predicament.

It was difficult to see how he would be able to get close enough to Dynaheir to try again. All his schemes and clever plans and he had nothing to show for it except the Soultaker dagger and this useless parasite of a cleric. Viconia seemed to sense what he was thinking because her face softened, and she slunk over to him seductively. She would far prefer to stab the wretched man in the eye, but she had no one else to turn to and nowhere else to go.

"We'll think of something," she purred reassuringly into his ear. "I want my revenge on that little scorpion of a ranger as much as you want your witch."

"I very much doubt that," glowered Edwin. Frankly the drow, with her vengeful vendetta against Arowan, was more likely to hinder than help his mission. He himself had no strong feelings about the ranger one way or the other. He could not care two straws whether she lived or died. It was a pointless distraction.

"Let me try talking to Safana again," murmured Viconia. She kissed Edwin's neck teasingly and ran her fingers up and down his waist. The wizard tensed, though not nearly as much as when they had first entered their partnership. He was growing bored with her, and it showed.

Safana and Viconia had been roommates, briefly, in the Ducal Palace. The two women had got on rather well, bonding over their shared love of pampering and their hatred of their respective party leaders. Safana had abandoned the palace in favour of the Elfsong Inn, apparently unable to endure Coran and Freya's continued daily presence. Yet so far as Viconia could tell, Safana's former leader was still paying for her room and board. That meant that she must still have some connection with her estranged party… and therefore some connection to Dynaheir.

"I'll never forgive Coran or that disgusting slut!" the thief had spat, when Viconia had first approached her about it. The cleric had nodded with unfeigned sympathy and bought her another drink. "But I'll happily take their gold from them if that's what they want."

Safana's party had also included Minsc and Dynaheir, and it had been the thief whom Viconia had turned to first following her exile. Yet, while the other woman had a selfish streak, she was not sufficiently villainous to sell out her friends to be slaughtered. At least not for the price that Edwin and Viconia could afford to offer.

"I'm sorry, I know we women have to stick together," Safana had drawled, ignoring the fact that their hated leaders were also women, "But I have nothing against Minsc and Dynaheir. Now if you ever decide you want to take out Freya herself… then maybe we can talk."

Viconia had no reason to suppose that the thief would change her mind. Indeed, Captain Corwin and Duke Silvershield were so suspicious of Safana, that she might not have the power to get them within striking distance of Dynaheir anyway. Yet she could sense that Edwin's tolerance was waning and this was one way of buying herself more time. It was not the only weapon in her arsenal though. She had other, more fun ways of keeping his attention.

With a wicked smile and a flash of her red eyes, she sank to her knees and ducked her head under Edwin's robes. They covered her like a sort of red tent, allowing her quite a lot of room to move about, while the wizard could not see exactly what she was doing. She ran her tongue up the inside of his leg, stroking his thighs with her hands. When her tongue reached his balls, the wizard gave a loud groan and stumbled forward, gripping the edge of their flimsy dining table for support.

Viconia saw with annoyance that he was not yet fully hard. This did not bode particularly well, yet she took him into her mouth anyway, twirling him around her tongue and sucking. It was taking longer every time, but she could feel him gradually stiffen. She nipped him gently. Edwin made an odd noise, somewhere between a grunt and a growl, and started to thrust. This caused the back of her head to bump uncomfortably against the edge of the table. The cheap, splintery floorboards were grazing her knees, and it wasn't long before she wriggled out from under his robes and stood up. The wizard gave a disappointed groan.

She pushed him playfully back onto their rickety bed. Edwin's heel caught the hem of his robe and he fell rather harder than Viconia had intended. There was a snap and the bed buckled in the middle. A handful of rusty springs tumbled out and rolled sadly away across the floor. There was a smell of rotten wood and one of the bed-legs snapped off with a pathetic crunch. Edwin howled and clutched at his back. She rushed to heal him and he sat up slowly as the pain subsided, glaring daggers at her as though all of this were her fault. She tried to kiss him again but he shoved her aside irritably.

"We have been carrying on like this for months," he told her. "But Dynaheir yet lives, and while she does I am as good as an exile from Thay. You are no longer in a position to help me to remove her. It seems to me, Viconia, that our usefulness to one another has run its course."

"I have nowhere to go," said Viconia stiffly. She was not quite successful in keeping the wobble of fear out of her voice.

"That," replied Edwin smugly, "Is not my problem."

He struggled out of the tangle of bed sheets, strode to the door and yanked it open. Then he stood, impatiently, gesturing for her to get out. Viconia's heart swelled with affronted rage and for a moment she entertained the idea of killing him for his insolence. Yet he was a rivvil and she was a drow. If she so much as laid a finger on him, the worthless rabble in this city would not bother with a trial. They would string her up in the market square before she could say 'he had it coming.'

Though it would lend her no comfort to think it, Viconia was far from alone in her homeless plight. From the Hall of Wonders to the harbour steps, Baldur's Gate was crammed with people who had nowhere to go. Some were bearing it stoically while others were turning to crime. Yet most just hunkered, shivering and desperate wherever space could be found. The sobbing of displaced men, women and children was a sound so ubiquitous within these walls, that it was as though the city itself wept.

The Grand Dukes, it seemed, had shut their hearts and ears as well as the gates to their vast estates. Duke Silvershield, in particular, was shouldering more than his share of the blame. His payments of wages to the Flaming Fist had been patchy of late. This was unfortunate, because as well as plunging even more families into poverty, it was putting the law enforcement officers into a bad mood. They were taking it out, in turn, on the local peasantry and the unhappy refugees.

Not that it would be fair to say that nobody was trying to help. A large stately building that had once belonged to the Iron Throne had been converted into a sanctuary of sorts. After the Hero of Baldur's Gate had ripped it to shreds hunting for her adopted father's killer, it had needed a lot of fixing before it could be sold. Rasaad yn Bashir, a young Calishite monk, had taken work as a labourer there in order to save the coin needed for his passage back home. When the first waves of refugees had started to arrive, the empty building had been turned into a shelter. All the building work had been abandoned but he had chosen to stay and help.

The assistance was badly needed. Little thought or planning had gone into how three hundred people spread out across five stories would manage day to day. Emptying the privy-buckets alone was a full-time job. It felt as though the nobles of Baldur's Gate had simply dumped them in there to keep them off of the streets. Out of sight and out of mind. It was a doomed effort. With the fighting continuing in the North more and more kept coming. This building could contain no more newcomers. Rasaad found that part the hardest. Turning pleading people away.

"I'm still hungry!" wept a small boy. Rasaad flinched. Make that the second hardest. The little lad had practically inhaled the bread roll he had handed to him. There were more in his basket, but he had to share them out fairly between all the refugees, there was so little to go around. Still this particular boy, with his bare feet and torn clothes, reminded Rasaad sharply of his own childhood as an orphan on the streets of Calimport. He knew only too well what it felt like to be a growing boy and starving.

At least they had blankets and hired hands who came around every day to take the laundry and scrub the floors. He and the priests who ran the shelter could never have afforded it, but an anonymous benefactor was sending the Iron Throne building regular gifts of gold and gems. He had come to the conclusion that it must be Freya, the Hero of Baldur's Gate. At first he had thought it might be Arowan. He had known her give away her gold almost down to the last penny, even before this crisis. Yet it could not be her. The amount that was being given was far beyond her means. It wouldn't be one of the unpopular Dukes either. If it were, they wouldn't be anonymous. If Silvershield or one of the others were donating so much, they would be broadcasting it to the public as loudly as possible, because frankly they could use the points.

"Can't we use some of that gold to buy more food?" piped up an edgy-looking man called Lon. "There's plenty of it. Or are you keeping it for yourselves?"

Rasaad paused handing out the bread and sighed.

"If you know who might be supplying more food, my friend, I will gladly do so," said Rasaad. "The bread comes from the city granaries and the Dukes are trying to distribute it fairly so that nobody starves. We buy what we can from the market but most of it is gone within seconds of arrival. It is true we have plenty of gold, but this is of little help when there is no food to be bought."

"They have venison and rabbits in the Chapel of Ilmater!" argued Lon. He seemed to practically salivate at the idea, more so than the other refugees.

At the mention of Ilmater, Rasaad's hand slipped slightly and he almost dropped the bread basket and its precious content. Behind him a cleric doling out thin, grey soup coughed impatiently. Rasaad collected himself and resumed giving out the bread. He noticed that the small boy had slipped free of his mother and crept further down the line in the hopes of getting another roll. It was wrong, and yet the monk decided he would let him have one as long as nobody else noticed. He was not a bad child, just desperately hungry. Unfortunately, so was everybody else.

"I will visit the chapel tomorrow morning before my shift," replied Rasaad, "But I would beg you all not to get your hopes up. It is probably only a rumour. Food is scarce everywhere and I cannot imagine where such an impoverished chapel would be sourcing fresh meat."

Hearing the Chapel of Ilmater being brought up had made his chest tighten uncomfortably. Until a few months ago he had been travelling the Sword Coast with an Ilmatari, the ranger Arowan. Their party had consisted of the pair of them, two half-elves Khalid and Jaheira, the cleric Viconia and two wizards, Xan and Edwin. The party had not disbanded on the best of terms. The half-elves had left on a mysterious mission for the Harpers, flat out refusing to take Viconia with them. Arowan had accepted her out of guilt, a favour which Viconia and Edwin had returned by trying to murder her to get to Dynaheir. Xan had retreated hastily to Evereska and as far as Rasaad knew, nobody had heard from him since.

As for Arowan, or Arrow as she was usually called, every time he thought of her he fell into the grip of a dull, miserable ache. Their fledgling romance had ended badly, and by badly, he meant that Arrow had threatened to shoot him in the kneecap unless he got out of her sight. Coming from the ranger this was no idle threat. It had been months since he had last seen her. When he had stormed out of the Ducal Palace without a backward glance, he had been sure that he would get over her in a few weeks. Yet weeks had turned to months and he caught himself constantly wondering where she was and what she was doing.

The Ilmatari, surely, must be trying to do something for the refugees. It was inconceivable that she wouldn't. He cursed himself inwardly for giving in to his feelings when they had travelled together. If he hadn't then perhaps they could be working together now as friends, instead of missing her constantly. He handed out the bread almost mechanically, forcing down the lump rising in his throat and willing the feeling to go away. Maybe she was at the chapel. If she was, there was a chance that they might run into each other. He wasn't sure whether he wanted that or not. He had overheard a rumour that she was spending a lot of time with Coran these days. If that was true, then he would rather not know.

That night, in the Ducal Palace, Arrow was fast asleep, though Rasaad might have been comforted to know that Coran was not with her. It felt strange to curl up in luxurious fur-lined satin when just outside the gates people were huddling in gutters, but what was the alternative? Eat and sleep in the chapel, taking up a refugee's space and food? She would have willingly traded places with one of them in an instant, but, of course, the Dukes would not allow it.

"Hey. Hey. Hey, Hey, HEY!" a voice was calling her out of her sleep. Somebody was shaking her by the rump. Arrow turned over in a drowsy attempt to escape her clutches.

"Freya! Freya! Hey Freya!" the unwelcome voice came again, shaking her harder. Though Arrow did not know the owner of the voice well, she did recognise her. It was Skie, Duke Silvershield's daughter.

"You have the wrong bedroom, go away," moaned Arrow. "And get your hand off my bottom."

"Sorry, it's dark!"

"Things could get a lot darker for you if you don't move your hand right now!" the ranger grumbled.

"Wow, you're definitely nothing like Freya are you?" giggled the irritating intruder.

"Definitely not Skie," groaned Arrow. There was nothing for it, she was awake now. Might as well sit up and light the lamp. "Why are you still here?"

"Not like Freya… except for your bum," Skie observed, ignoring the question. "There's definitely a family resemblance there. What? It's distinctive, that's all I'm saying. So how come you're not out helping Freya to round up the last of Sarevok's followers? She and Corwin were grumbling about it to Daddy at dinner. Not often those two agree on anything. And how come you never come to dinner?" Skie asked, pawing Arrow's bedsheets like a curious kitten.

"How come 'The Hero of Baldur's Gate' isn't helping us to hunt food for the refugees?" retorted Arrow.

"Oh, c'mon that's not fair! You know she can't leave the city," said Skie. "She can't even leave this palace without an escort. The commoners swamp her everywhere she goes. They love her!" The girl broke off giggling and added conspiratorially, "I think Daddy is a little bit jealous!"

"Is that the reason? I thought maybe she was avoiding Coran," said Arrow acidly.

Skie gave a tinkling laugh and pulled back the curtains letting light flood in through the window. Arrow groaned and tried to hide beneath the blankets from the brightness, the world and most of all from Skie.

"I wouldn't blame her if she was!" Skie trilled. "I mean _that_ situation has got to be awkward."

Arrow rolled her eyes at this colossal understatement. Coran and Freya had formed a close… well… bromance was probably the most accurate way to describe it. Unfortunately, the elf had spent weeks trapped inside a cursed girdle, transforming him into a woman and causing Freya to look at him in a very different light. Even though Coran and Safana were officially an item at the time, he and Freya had indulged in an ill-advised one-night stand. The next morning, the party had obtained the key to take the girdle off.

Their lust had not survived Coran's return to masculinity, but Safana's murderous rage certainly had. The result was that, like Arowan, Freya was now without an adventuring party. Not that this mattered much. With the Hooded Man lurking outside the city walls waiting for his chance to abduct and torture them, there wasn't much adventuring they could do.

Arrow knew that she was taking a terrible risk by leaving the city to hunt. She told herself that it was to feed the refugees, but at least half the reason for her recklessness was that she was going stir-crazy. The ranger was not a city person. She led an active, outdoorsy sort of life when permitted to and being cooped up for months on end was almost unbearable. Besides, against her better judgement, she was enjoying Coran's company. Her fellow archer's devil-may-care attitude made a refreshing change to brooding, taciturn Rasaad.

"I wish I had a bum like yours, all the Flaming Fist Officers practically talk to your bums!" Skie was still talking. Arrow wondered why, having clearly stumbled into the wrong sister's room, the wretched girl wouldn't just leave.

"Which in Freya's case makes perfect sense, seeing as she talks out of her arse," grumbled Arrow bad temperedly. Skie scowled. Then she shook her head and her happy expression returned. For some reason the thief looked extremely pleased with herself. It made Arrow feel wary.

"You can't tell Daddy- Duke Silvershield- about this!" Skie giggled excitedly.

"About what?" sighed Arrow, bowing to the inevitable and rising out of bed. Skie beamed and practically bounced on her bottom in glee.

"I've joined the Flaming Fist!" she squealed.

This news did take Arrow slightly by surprise. Surely, especially with the current crisis, the Duke would not want his cherished only child to enlist. She could hardly imagine that the Hero of Baldur's Gate would be thrilled either. Freya would not want Skie to throw herself into harm's way.

"Your father allowed that?" asked Arrow, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh no. No, no, no, no, NO! Father would never allow that. I joined under a false name," replied Skie smugly.

Arrow baulked. She would have given anything she owned, (though admittedly this was not much), to unhear those words. Skie joining the Flaming Fist was one thing. Skie signing up anonymously was another. She might be treated as a common soldier and common soldiers were allowed to die. If anything happened to Skie and the Duke found out that Arrow had known about it, she was a dead woman. She had no choice but to tell him, though Skie had told her in confidence.

"Why…?" Arrow croaked weakly.

"Life as a noble is boring and stupid!" Skie declared. Arrow looked up from the porcelain basin where she was washing her face and frowned. A day or two of following her around the Chapel of Ilmater tending to the refugees might teach the silly girl to appreciate her good fortune. "I want to do something great with my life and maybe meet some handsome soldiers!"

Nope. Freya was _definitely_ not going to like this plan. Maybe this was her way out of this mess. Get Skie to tell Freya and let the 'Hero' tell the Duke.

"Well that's… really something," said Arrow, drying herself on one of Imoen's fluffy pink towels and reaching into her potion bag. She felt something unnaturally cold brush her hand. Numbing potions. Tucked into their own little pocket, the dangerous concoctions blocked all feeling and empathy. They had been the death of one of her own brothers, and Rasaad's brother too. She shuddered and kept rummaging until her hand closed on the bottle she was searching for.

"I know, right?" trilled Skie. She practically danced to the door. "Well, when you see Freya tell her I need to talk to her. You know how much she loves the Flaming Fist uniforms, this is going to blow her mind!"

"Yes. I will definitely do that," said Arrow in a tone of studied neutrality. She pulled on light leather armour and leggings that were a great deal too small for her. They revealed more of her body than, as a strict Ilmatari, she would ideally have liked. Still, needs must.

She was not entirely sure what the deal was these days with Freya and Skie. Arrow did know Freya adored the noblewoman, as did the whole city. There had been a very public and humiliating incident before the fall of Sarevok involving one of his doppelgangers. Posing as Skie, it had kissed the werewolf in front of the entire upper-class of Baldur's Gate, before stabbing her in the abdomen. She was not sure how her sister had managed to live this down (she certainly couldn't have done) and yet the two of them still seemed to be friends. Arrow was fairly certain that Skie liked men. Her remark about meeting handsome soldiers would seem to suggest that, and yet her relationship with Freya did not always come across as entirely platonic.

" _Then again,"_ she mused silently as she stepped out of the palace, _"I am hardly in a position to judge ambiguous friendships."_

Right on cue, Coran popped out of the crowd of petitioners at the palace gates and fell into stride beside her. Freya could not have done this. The Hero of Baldur's Gate would have been instantly mobbed by beggars, admirers and adoring fans. Yet with her low charisma and few heroic deeds to her name, Arrow could wander about more or less unnoticed. There were advantages to being the anonymous sister.

"Good morning lovely one," said Coran, flashing her his brightest smile. Arrow smiled back. They were playing a game here. With her toned build, freckles and short brown hair she did not think she was exactly ugly these days. Yet she was hardly the stuff of dreams either. Heads did not turn when she walked down the street. 'Lovely one' was a gross exaggeration, especially compared to Coran's previous conquests. If she were to join their ranks he would lose interest in an hour.

This did not bother Arrow, however, as she hadn't the least intention of becoming another notch on his bedpost. She had told him as much when he started his flirting. Though the church of Ilmater did not prohibit extramarital affairs _per se,_ they were discouraged on the basis that they brought about unnecessary suffering. After her chaste, but hurtful, romance with Rasaad she had come to agree with this doctrine. No sex outside of marriage.

Coran, surprisingly, had not been put off by this. On the contrary, he seemed to have taken it as an exciting challenge. She got the impression that if she were to tell him to go away he would, and maybe she should but… all day every day she was surrounded by misery, poverty and pain. She was doing everything she could but it weighed on her heart. The future stretched out before her like a road of endless, dismal grey. Yet here, dancing along beside her, was someone whose light heart and high spiritedness seemed indestructible.

When they went out hunting together his jokes and stories turned her mind from worrying fruitlessly about the starving families they were finding meat for. His infectious laugh and twinkling eyes lifted her mood from the gutter. She couldn't love him, which was no bad thing, but she enjoyed his company. And yes, if she was being honest, she enjoyed his flirting too.

Rasaad's love had always seemed to blow hot and cold. Sometimes it felt to her as though he toyed with her heart like a cat tormenting a mouse. Perhaps the monk had not meant to. In fact, she was certain he hadn't, but he had left her feeling terrible about herself. Coran's flirting, shallow and superficial though it was, restored some of her confidence.

"This looks like a good spot," said Coran under his breath. Arrow handed him her bow and quiver. He gestured toward a stack of empty crates piled into a side-street. There were a lot of these around. Crates were liable to attract gangs who would pull them apart in search of food. Unwilling to be mugged for nothing, the merchants were dumping empty goods boxes wherever they could once they had sold their wares, rather than risking taking them out of the city.

Clutching her potion, Arrow ducked behind them, relieved. These tiny trousers were cutting off her circulation. She tipped a few drops of the potion onto her tongue as Coran kept watch and immediately she started to change. The first thing she always noticed, as she began to shrink, was how much larger everything looked from a gnome's perspective. Her short brown hair lengthened and turned grey. Her hands shrivelled, her nose and ears grew and most of her teeth receded into her gums.

Tucking the potion back into her bag, she slipped back into the street. Coran spotted her but was careful not to make eye contact. He wandered slowly through the city allowing her to keep up. It was hard to be a gnome in Baldur's Gate, especially an elderly one. People kept trying to walk through her like she wasn't there. This potion, which Coran had somehow managed to acquire for her, was how she was managing to leave the shelter of the Flaming Fist without the Hooded Man capturing her. The few drops would wear off quickly and once in the woods she could hunt in safety. She was careful never to be seen with any of her friends in this disguise, hence why Coran was walking ahead.

As they neared the city gates another gnome gave her a friendly wave. He had flowing blue hair, and a beard. Arrow thought she recognised him as the cleric who had once thrown a turnip at Duke Silvershield in protest at his treatment of the poor. Under different circumstances she might be interested in meeting him, but as it was a conversation with another gnome might give her away. She pressed forward but in her elderly body she moved slowly, and he soon caught up to her.

"Hello there!" he beamed. Coran looked back at her, worried, but his intervention could only make it worse. "It's not often we get new gnomes in the city. Glint Gardnersonson, at your service."

"Well that's nice, but I'm in a hurry," said Arrow.

"Might I enquire as to your name?" he asked.

"Alix," replied Arrow repressively, quickening her stride. The city gates were in sight now. Surely, he would not pursue her outside its walls.

"Alix who?" pressed Glint.

"Alix Whosonson," she snapped sarcastically. She had not come up with a surname for her alter ego. Then a bolt of inspiration struck her. "And I happen to know that you are a trouble maker, young man! Throwing turnips at the Duke! Go on, be off with you!"

"Ah, my reputation precedes me," replied Glint gallantly. "Perhaps I will see you around. I could introduce you to my mother, the pair of you might have a lot in common. Good day to you madam."

To her relief the other gnome broke off and retreated. Soon he was lost among the forest of legs of the tall folk of Baldur's Gate. Arrow did not much like cities herself, but how could a gnome stand it? Being so low to the ground, pushed past and stepped on. Not to mention the carts! Horses from this height were petrifying. She and Coran joined those leaving the city. Far more people were coming in than going out. More mouths to feed, more bodies to shelter.

As always, she took the road to the left and Coran took the path to the right, just in case he was being watched. She broke off the road and down a narrow mud track into the wood, counting the steps until she abandoned that too, leaving civilization for the trees. After walking for a while she turned back into a human, and as she did so Coran emerged from hiding in the shadows, placing his hands over her eyes. She laughed and he spun her around, handing her back her bow and stringing his own.

"Well he was persistent, wasn't he?" grinned Coran teasingly. He pulled Arrow's normal sized clothes out of his pack and she changed into them, aware that he was watching. He was welcome to watch. Provided he did not touch. "Perhaps your disguise is sexy for a gnome. Am I faced with competition I wonder?"

"Go check the snares," laughed Arrow, flicking his nose. She felt elated to be once more escaping the city and roaming the wilds. "And I'm sure I saw geese flying over the city yesterday. Let's see if we can't catch them!"


	3. Assassins in the Ducal Palace

Gentle eyes, floppy red hair, that adorable stammer. How long had Arrow said the Harpers would be gone for, a couple of weeks? Instead it had been months and where were they? She knew that the ranger had received letters from her adopted family but she would not share all of the content with Imoen. Some sort of secretive Harper business presumably. At least she had not seemed unduly worried that they had not returned to the city yet. That must mean that Khalid wasn't in danger. Though unfortunately it probably meant that Jaheira wasn't in danger either.

"Oh no, I didn't really mean that!" Imoen whispered quietly to herself, though there was nobody there to hear her.

She didn't really want anything bad to happen to Jaheira. Only for she and Khalid to wake up one morning and realise they were obviously wrong for each other. Then the druid could happily dance off into the wood somewhere and never ever come back. She ducked under the covers and pressed her lips to the back of her own hand, imagining Khalid's face.

Ever since Arrow had turned up in Baldur's Gate with the news that Khalid and his wife would follow shortly after, Imoen had been unable to banish these sorts of fantasies. Of course it was hopeless. For whatever incomprehensible reason, Khalid was utterly devoted to his aggressive, nagging wife. His loyalty only made Imoen want him more. Yet knowing that they could never be together filled her with a gut-wrenching despair.

There wasn't even anyone she could really talk about it with. Freya had never met Khalid or Jaheira, and she did not dare to confide in Arrow. The Ilmatari ranger had _views_ about marriage that seemed to have become rather more rigid in the time that they had travelled apart. More than that Arrow, who had not had a close relationship with Gorion, had come to view the half-elves as her adopted family. Imoen doubted she would appreciate hearing that she wished her father would leave her mother.

As she moved her hand away from her mouth with the intention of enjoying some personal time, Imoen thought she heard a shuffling noise. She froze. An occupational hazard of being nobility, which would never have occurred to her before, was the total lack of privacy. Domestic staff of both genders would come wandering into her room entirely without warning. Once, a pair of them had bustled in to tend the fireplace without knocking, while Imoen was flat out on the bed with a hairbrush handle between her thighs. She had been mortified, but they had simply ignored her, carrying on their business like she wasn't there and expecting her to do the same. When she had expressed her… confusion… the servants were at a loss to understand the problem. Apparently, this sort of thing happened all the time. It was as if nobles and peasants saw each other as a different species.

Keen to avoid a repeat of such an incident, she pulled down her nightgown and stepped out to investigate. There was nobody in the corridor, yet she was sure that she had heard something. At the end of the hallway a window was open and a curtain was moving, though the fabric was heavy and there was no wind. As she watched it, it swung to a stop. Strange.

She was sure she must be being silly and yet, she was scared. Her eyes darted to the door of Freya's bedroom. When they had been kids in Candlekeep they had shared a room, except on the nights leading up to full moon. Freya was so strong and confident that she had always relied on her to check under the bed for monsters. This was not entirely paranoia on young Imoen's part. Gorion had adopted multiple wards, all of whom were now dead except for Freya and Arowan. One of them had been a half orc who liked to collect 'exotic pets,' and another was a budding necromancer who practised on rodents. So, in fact, it had frequently transpired that there really were monsters under the beds. And Freya, being a monster herself, had always dealt with them for her.

She was not a child now but, feeling rather foolish, she rapped gently on Freya's door and let herself in.

"Hey Freya are you awake? It's me, Imoen."

Freya had not been awake, but she immediately sprang up in alarm. Imoen had known that the Hero of Baldur's Gate had taken to sleeping in full armour lately. This was for fear of a wizard stalking her, whom they referred to as the Hooded Man. What she had not known was that she also went to bed with her swords in hand. The six-foot-three semi-conscious woman slashed in a frantic, disorientated sort of way.

"Freya!" protested Imoen, flinging herself back into the wall out of the way of the slicing metal.

Freya's grey eyes shot open. For a moment she stared at the pink haired girl, panting and feral. Her long blonde hair was strewn in wild tangles over her face. It was disconcerting to see the Hero of Baldur's Gate so shaken.

"I- Imoen?" she gasped weakly. As she woke up properly, she seemed to get a grip on herself. "Don't do that. I almost transformed. What is it? Is something wrong?"

"I don't know. That's the problem," Imoen replied cryptically.

"What's with the whispery mystical voice all of a sudden?" demanded Freya, standing on the bed and folding her arms.

She cocked her head to one side and looked at Imoen in an evaluating sort of way. The pink-haired girl knew that look and groaned inwardly. When they were children, two Selunite monks from the monastery in Athkatla had come to live in Candlekeep, at Gorion's invitation. Their job was to help Freya to control her lycanthropy. This had required over a decade of therapy, as were-infections were not easily controlled. An unfortunate side-effect of being raised by therapists was that every so often she would try to inappropriately psychoanalyse people. Imoen found it a bothersome habit.

"Ever since you started studying magic with Duke Janneth you've been talking weird," Freya went on. "Is it because you feel insecure about starting your magical studies relatively late and you're over compensating by trying to sound the part? Or is it a subconscious expression of your fear of failure?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," replied Imoen sniffily.

"Well knock it off," said Freya, jumping down from the bed with a cocky grin. Now that she had woken up properly her normal bravado was returning. "It's getting on my nerves."

Imoen said something distinctly unmystical in reply. Of all the Bhaalspawn that Gorion had brought to Candlekeep, Freya had always been her best friend. It made her a bit guilty to think of this because _all_ of them had thought they were her best friend. This was because, until recently, the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn had been totally unaware of each other's existence. Their father's memory spells had tricked almost everybody, including the Bhaalspawn themselves, into believing that they were all one person.

It had led to some bizarre situations, but with Gorion's death the truth had gradually emerged. Sadly her childhood friends had perished one by one. Only Freya, the Hero of Baldur's Gate, and Arrow remained. Imoen worried about Arrow a lot. Stronger, cleverer and more likeable Candlekeep Bhaalspawn than her had all gone to their early graves. Or would have done if Bhaalspawn had graves. Unlike Freya, there was nothing special about Arowan that would keep her alive where the others had been slaughtered. It preyed on Imoen's mind.

"Maybe I'm just jumpy because of what's been going on in the city. There are so many people here running from that crusade in the North" sighed Imoen. "I heard noises coming from outside my room. I was worried something was happening."

"Noises?" Freya barked, "What kind of noises?"

Freya reverted back to panicked mode. Imoen knew what she was thinking. For three months there had been no sign of the Hooded Man but she had not forgotten what he had done to their dead brother. It made Imoen nervous too. The Hero of Baldur's Gate was a werewolf, armed with the best equipment gold could buy and with abilities drastically enhanced by magical tomes. There was not much in Faerun that frightened her, but this Hooded Man had her petrified.

"Footsteps. Maybe muttering. It was probably just a servant. Hells, now I feel silly," Imoen admitted. "Wait! There it is again, do you hear that? I'm going to go check it out."

"No, I can't hear anything, but I can smell people!" said Freya urgently. She looked around the room but there was nobody there. "They're not guards or servants. I don't recognise them. Stay here Imoen, and don't come out unless I say!"

Swords readied, Freya padded into the hallway that separated her bedroom from the one that Imoen and Arrow shared. The pair of them had been given the floor above Duke Silvershield's which was usually reserved for visiting ambassadors. Freya got the second room to herself as a matter of practicality. Half of the room was lavishly furnished and decorated, but the other half had been stripped bare. Where the second bed would normally have been, the Grand Dukes had installed a steel pole set in concrete. Thick dwarf-forged chains were draped around it. A reminder to Freya, both of the looming spectre of full moon and the fact that her new allies did not really trust her. Understandable. Some days she did not really trust herself.

There was nobody in the hall or in the other bedroom, but the nose did not lie. Sensitive smell was a constant for Freya in both forms, but _directional_ smell required her to be a wolf. It was a concept that she had some difficulty in getting the Flaming Fist to understand on their missions to root out the last of Sarevok's supporters. As a human she could smell 'what.' Only as a canine could she smell 'where.'

"Freya!" cried Imoen from the other room, "Something is happening! There are people here- help me!"

"Imoen!" yelled Freya, sprinting back into the bedroom, where four assassins had emerged from the shadows. They were surrounding her friend, cruel daggers drawn. One of them was dripping with poison.

"Stay back, stay back or I'll…" screamed Imoen. They did not stay back. One of the assassins lunged with his blade and a half-summoned missile in the mage's hand fizzled out. She gave a wail and collapsed as the daggers sliced into her arm. They were only flesh wounds but the poison was potent and she passed out almost instantly.

"The Bhaalspawn is here! Take them!" cried one, spotting Freya.

"I'll wipe your filthy lineage right out of the realms!" hissed a second.

"Wait! This is the wrong one!" cried a third anxiously. "This is the werewolf, we have to get out of-"

He never got chance to finish his sentence, before Freya's sword sliced open his throat. He collapsed in a fountain of blood and she cursed inwardly. The smell of human blood would linger in the wood for months. She would have to sleep somewhere else from now on.

Two more assassins ran at her at once with their poisoned daggers, but their skill was no match for her sheer strength. They ducked and wove but before they could get close enough to strike she lashed out in a great arc with both swords at once. Against a normal opponent the move could have been parried, but Freya was both a lycanthrope and had a body enhanced by magical tomes stolen for her by Gorion. Their daggers were swept irresistibly from their hands and the two swords buried into one abdomen each. She pulled them out, and the assassins crumpled to the floor. They were still moaning. Swords to the gut were invariably fatal without a healer, but they took a long time to kill. Freya put them out of their misery, hoping that when her own time came the warrior who bested her would do her the same courtesy.

That left one more. They were hiding in shadows again waiting to backstab her.

"Well this was pointless!" growled Freya. "Did the Hooded Man send you? I suppose Arowan was your target? He must have known you'd never be able to take _me_ like this."

"She was, but you're just as good!" hissed the assassin directly behind her. He gave away his position because, like his fellows, he had underestimated her strength. Normally a backward stab with a sword would require the wielder to bring their arm forward first to get some momentum. The assassin was banking on her not having time to do this before he struck. Unluckily for him, with her artificially enhanced body, Freya could skewer him from a standing-start. He dropped the dagger that he had been about to plunge into her back, blinking in agony and disbelief at the bastard sword upon which he found himself impaled. With barely a grunt of effort, Freya pulled it out and he collapsed to the floor.

"Still think that my metal pyjamas are paranoid Imoen?" she growled. There was no reply. "Imoen? Immy?"

"Freya! Are you here? The palace is under attack and… oh hells." A scowling woman with short brown hair thrust her way into the room. She was wearing the Flaming Fist insignia on her armour. It was a symbol that Freya normally welcomed the sight of. Except on Captain Corwin…

"Yeah I'm still alive," snarled Freya. "Don't look too disappointed."

"You alright?" Corwin asked, in a tone that made it clear that she'd prefer the answer to be 'no.'

"Imoen needs a healer!" barked Freya.

"A healer should be on their way," replied Corwin indifferently, making no effort to check whether a healer actually was coming. It crossed Freya's mind that if she were to quickly stab the stuck up cow with a fallen assassin's dagger, nobody would be able to prove that she hadn't been killed by one of them. "The palace has been penetrated," Corwin went on, redundantly. "I tried to reach you before they did but… well."

Freya gave her a sarcastic smile. It wasn't exactly that Corwin had no legitimate reason to dislike her. Admittedly, originally, the fault had been hers. Before the fall of Sarevok, Coran had been tricked by Skie's revolting boyfriend Eldoth into putting on an enchanted girdle, turning him into a woman. Corana's brief existence had resulted in many unfortunate consequences. The worst being that 'she' and Freya had slept together, earning Safana's eternal enmity. However, in addition to this, their efforts to cure him had involved burgling Duke Silvershield and tricking Corwin. Their actions had shed Corwin in a bad light and earned her a temporary demotion.

So, to be fair, Freya could not blame Corwin for the fact that they had got off on the wrong foot. Yet it had been funny, months had gone by and since then she had been fully vindicated and promoted to Captain. Despite this, Corwin continued to speak to Freya as though she were something she had scraped from the sole of her boot. The wolf had tried to be friendly, she had tried to make amends, but Corwin had a stick wedged so far up her arse that even Freya was not strong enough to dislodge it.

"My friend is hurt," said Freya tersely. "Would you _please_ go and get a healer?"

"The palace cleric will be here soon," said Corwin, idly inspecting her fingernails. "He's working his way up. Healing the sick as he goes. Of course, I realise that the lives of a few dozen guards with families to feed are not as important as a friend of the Hero of Baldur's Gate." Freya winced. She was not fond of that title, but she particularly disliked the way Corwin said it. "Your friend doesn't look _too_ bad."

There was a crackle of energy and a dimension gate opened. Out of it stepped Duke Janneth, flanked by a pair of uninjured guards. Freya liked this Duke. She had been mentoring Imoen, teaching her how to spell sling. She was happy for her. Imoen had always wanted to be a mage but Gorion, who couldn't stand the sight of Imoen, had refused to pay for her tutor. Freya tried to shake that thought from her head. She had loved her adopted father Gorion, and she loved Imoen. Yet there was no denying that while she had been his little princess, he had treated his only real daughter very badly indeed. Freya tried not to think about that. Doggy love tends to be unconditional, and the canine in Freya did not cope well with conflicting loyalties.

The instant Duke Janneth entered the room, eyes full of concern for her stricken student, Corwin's whole demeanour altered drastically. Instead of callous indifference, suddenly the Captain was on her knees beside Imoen, stroking back her pink hair with one hand and holding her fingers with the other. Freya had to fight down a snarl.

"The assassins' blades are coated with a mystic poison," said Janneth, "But I believe I can save her."

"Oh, thank the gods!" cried Corwin. Freya's fist clenched and unclenched. She was really hamming it up for the Duke's benefit. Had she even managed to summon some fake tears? Duke Janneth smiled at the Captain reassuringly. Thinking of how transparently uncaring Corwin had been before her superior entered the room, Freya felt a prickle of fur start to erupt down her back. It had been a difficult morning.

She closed her eyes, focussed on Selune, and took in a deep meditating breath. That was a mistake. It filled her nostrils with the scent of fresh blood. _Shit. Focus!_ Breathing in counting slowly… and out on six. In and out. _Ignore Corwin_. When she opened her steely grey eyes again the fur had retreated. Nobody else seemed to have noticed her brief lapse. All of their attention was on Imoen.

"What can I do?" asked Freya in a constricted voice. The Duke looked up at her pityingly.

"The best thing you can do right now is to accompany Captain Corwin downstairs and ensure that the palace is secure," she replied kindly. Freya nodded and saluted reflexively. Though she was not a member of the Flaming Fist, she had been around soldiers continually for months on end. She was starting to pick up some of their habits.

"Of course mi'lady," said Corwin. She rose from Imoen's side and, with her back to the Duke, shot Freya a look that wished the other woman nothing but ill. Freya followed her. Before they rounded the corner of the red velvet staircase, she gripped Corwin's arm to stop her. The Captain glared at her furiously. She opened her mouth as if to shout at her, but Freya shook her head.

"Let me go first," whispered Freya. "There are more of them down there I can smell them."

Corwin nodded and notched an arrow in her bow. The werewolf charged into the room ahead of her. She did not entirely trust the Captain not to accidentally-on-purpose shoot her in the back, but this was the suite that Skie shared with her father. Freya was not about to risk any harm coming to her.

Fortunately, the Silvershields were not in their apartments but the intruders were punished severely for their choice of target. Both Freya and Corwin would protect the Silvershields at all costs. It was one of the very few things that they could both agree on, and soon the assassins were lying in pools of blood on the floor.

"I'll check the rooms in case there are more of them," sneered Corwin, sweeping into the Duke's room while two of the guards went to inspect Skie's. "You stay out here. There are important documents in here and you're not to be trusted."

They strode away, leaving the werewolf to look idly around the room. As always, her eyes were drawn to an enormous gold-framed portrait at the head of the table. A long-deceased Flaming Fist general, who bore a striking resemblance to the current Duke Silvershield, stood with his hands rested on the shoulders of a doe-eyed young harpist. Maire Silvershield. She had died long before Freya was a twinkle in the god of murder's eye, and yet she owed the Duchess a great debt.

Freya ground her back teeth but she did not have long to savour her irritation at Captain Corwin. As soon as the Flaming Fist were inside the rooms, more assassins stepped out of the shadows and kicked the doors shut, trapping them inside. Freya was left in Silvershield's dining hall as they advanced on her around his magnificent twelve-seater oak dining table.

"Alright, alright!" cried Freya. "We can do this, but just try to die tidily ok? Silvershield is already mad at me for getting mud on his Evereskan wool rug. He won't thank me for adding bloodstains!"

The assassins ignored her, but from Freya's perspective this was a genuine concern. She sheathed her swords and ripped a leg from the table (not realising that it cost far more than the carpet) to bludgeon them with without leaving stains. There were three of them. The first two fell at the swing of her makeshift club, but she managed to dodge the third's blade and catch her by the scruff of the neck.

"Who are you working for?" Freya bellowed.

"Fuck you, you disgusting freak!" the assassin replied in an Amnian accent, spitting in her face. Freya's eyes narrowed once more. The assassin _might_ have been referring to her lycanthropy. She _might_ have meant that she was a Bhaalspawn. Yet Freya's experience with Amnians led her to suspect differently. After she received her bite as a little girl, Gorion had hired two monks from the Selunite monastery in Athkatla to help her to control her transformations. Selune was the patron goddess of non-evil lycanthropes and in fairness they had done their job well. She could control her condition… more or less… but when the subject of dating had started to come up in the therapy sessions, she had discovered that attitudes to gender roles were rather more rigid in the South.

"I'm going to ask one more time," sighed Freya. "I won't ask a third. Who are you working for?"

"I serve the Shining Lady, bitch!" replied the assassin. 'Bitch,' directed at a female werewolf was a particularly offensive term, and the woman had not really answered her question. The gods would surely not fault her for sending her to the afterlife after her colleagues. Nevertheless, Freya snatched her weapons, freed the Flaming Fist Officers from Skie's bedroom and handed her over to them.

"With me!" she ordered. "We need to make sure Skie is alright."

She took the stairs three at a time with the guards behind her, dragging the captured assassin. The werewolf smiled at the sound of muffled banging behind her. She had 'accidentally' neglected to release Captain Corwin from the Duke's study.

The Dukes of Baldur's Gate, all four of them, were waiting on the ground floor. Duke Janneth, who must have teleported from Imoen's side, mouthed "she's ok!" Flaming Fist officers swarmed around them like ants protecting their queen. The room was regally decorated with gold leaf decorations and grand portraits of past leaders of the city. Since Freya's arrival, some of the fancier furnishings had been placed into storage. She was not good at remembering to wipe her boots on the way in and out, and the once-red velvet carpet that lined the stairs to her room was now a mottled brown. The Dukes were safe, but it was not them that the werewolf cared about. Panic welled in her chest as her eyes swept the room.

"Skie? Where's Skie?" Freya called urgently.

"I'm right here silly!" laughed Skie, popping out of one of the side rooms. She ran out to the Hero of Baldur's Gate, as light on her feet as a ballerina. Freya pulled her into a relieved hug, and the young heiress petted her golden hair affectionately.

Skie smiled, revelling in the raised eyebrows moments like this provoked. She did prefer men, it was true, though if she were to date a woman Freya would certainly be her girl of choice. Tall, strong and widely held to be one of the most stunning individuals that the sword coast had ever produced… if only she were male! Yet despite this obvious limitation, there were some definite perks to the whole city knowing that Freya was in love with her.

Skie herself had been aware of this for a long time, but it became public knowledge when, on the night of Sarevok's election to Grand Duke, he had invited doppelgangers to the celebration party. Freya had saved her father from their assault, but one of the monsters had held back from the main fight. After the battle was lost, it had cunningly taken on Skie's features and kissed Freya in an apparent spontaneous gesture of gratitude. Right before stabbing the werewolf through the stomach.

Though at first Skie had felt rather embarrassed and sorry for Freya, she soon began to find that the incident had elevated her own social standing. Her father was somewhat unpopular these days, whereas the Hero of Baldur's Gate was adored by all. When she went out on formal occasions, the crowds responded very differently to the Hero's love interest than they did to the Duke's daughter. People started throwing flowers at her in the street instead of rotten vegetables. Gentlemen who before had never given Skie a second glance suddenly seemed to have decided that there must be something extraordinary about her to have captured the demi-god's heart. She wouldn't mind if people kept associating the pair of them for a while.

But there was something else about her rumoured involvement with Freya. Something even better than the attention of men and the respect of the public, and that was that Daddy _absolutely hated her!_

He was glaring at her now, and if looks could kill then the werewolf would be reduced to a smouldering pile of ashes on the floor. A more unsuitable consort for his daughter was unthinkable. Eldoth would have been better. Well, perhaps that was a slight exaggeration, but a Bhaalspawn, a lycanthrope and a woman! The possibility of his heirs not being his biological grandchildren. Worse than all of that she was a commoner who hung around with a pack of thieves and had once broken into his own apartments to steal from him. He conveniently ignored the fact that they had been blackmailed into doing this by his own daughter, Skie, who held the key to Coran's girdle of femininity. Skie smiled innocently at her furious father. He was incandescent with rage.

" _Ha!"_ Skie thought triumphantly. _"Try marrying me off to one of your inbred noble friends with Freya around. She'd chop him up into wedding favours for me before you could say 'I object!'"_

Meanwhile, Corwin had managed to escape from the barricaded room. This had clearly required some physical exertion on her part because she was out of breath and her dark hair was plastered over her flushed and furious face. She joined Duke Silvershield in glaring poison at Freya, but having established Skie and Imoen's safety, the Hero's mind had turned to other concerns.

"Where in the nine hells is Arowan?" demanded Freya.

"I'm not sure exactly. Out with the refugees I suppose?" shrugged Captain Corwin indifferently. The werewolf rounded on her.

"Well find her damn it!" Freya ordered. She paced back and forth in the foyer. "If I have to lead _another_ expedition to go rescue little sister because some stinking beggar she was helping turned out to be a ransom gang, I swear by Selune's shining arse that I am going to-"

"I think it's really nice of Arrow to try and help those people," chipped in Skie. Freya stopped criticising Arrow abruptly, and at once her heart felt like fluttering lead. Seeing Skie Silvershield every day was both the best and worst part of living in the Ducal Palace.

Not that she really had any choice in the matter. She and her sister Arowan, the last survivors of the ill-fated Candlekeep Bhaalspawn were being hunted by a powerful wizard. They had no name for him except the 'Hooded Man' but they had seen enough of his torturous experiments on their dead brother to know that becoming his prisoner was not a fate they wanted. Freya had met him face to face only once, at the docks of Baldur's Gate. She had been forewarned that he was coming, and met him with half of the Flaming Fist army at her back, yet between them they had barely managed a scratch.

That army was all that prevented the Hooded Man from carrying Arrow and Freya off whenever he felt like it. Were either one of them to leave the shelter of the Flaming Fist they were toast, and they both knew it. Yet despite the risks, Arrow insisted on going out in disguise to help the refugees.

"Never mind Arowan," snapped Duke Silvershield. "We can start without her and fill her in when she turns up. She's hardly the lynchpin of the operation."

"Start what without her?" blinked Freya.

"What do you know about the so-called Shining Lady, Caelar Argent?" asked Duke Eltan slowly. He said everything slowly these days. The commander of the Flaming Fist was getting on in years and rumour had it that he meant to retire soon. Certainly, he had been shifting increasing amounts of responsibility for the day to day running of the Fist to Duke Silvershield. The general consensus was that Eltan had been rather better at it, and nobody was looking forward to seeing the handover complete. Except perhaps Corwin, who Freya noticed had slunk her way into the conversation without being invited.

"I know Caelar Argent started the crusade that drove all the refugees to Baldur's Gate," shrugged Freya. "Didn't know about the pretentious nickname. The 'Shining Lady?' Really?"

A half-smile crossed Duke Eltan's wizened face. Corwin huffed impatiently, something about the 'Hero of Baldur's Gate' being in no position to throw stones. Silvershield smiled at the Captain indulgently, like a favourite daughter. A few times Freya had heard it rumoured that Corwin had been known to date other females on occasion. Good looking, a bit gay and in uniform. It would be a dream come true for Freya were it not for the woman's hideous personality. It was a real shame.

"I examined the body of one of the assassins. A sun cresting the horizon was branded on his forearm," Duke Eltan said. "The symbol of Caelar argent and her blasted crusade."

"The crusade? I assumed that they were working for the Hooded Man," frowned Freya. Though the last thing she needed was more enemies, this news came as something of a relief. "I thought the crusade were only active North of the Winding Water?"

"They were," said Duke Janneth darkly. "Something has changed."

"The crusade has disrupted trade all along the Sword Coast," said Duke Silvershield. Freya thought that she detected a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "Hundreds, thousands have been driven from their homes. Their fields and storehouses ransacked!"

"Duke Silvershield decided," began the fourth Duke tersely. He was a quiet, shadowy little man. Freya always struggled to remember his name. "That it would be a good strategy to dispatch a hundred Flaming Fist officers to join with soldiers from Waterdeep and Daggerford to march on Caelar's stronghold- Dragonspear Castle."

"WHAT?" cried Freya. The Fist were already stretched extremely thin and their strength combined with her own had only just been enough to drive the Hooded Man from the city. If they were down a hundred soldiers, she and Arrow were sitting ducks.

"It won't be enough," said Eltan, with a stern glance at Silvershield. "The crusade's ranks have swelled. The Flaming Fist is stretched perilously thin as it is. Even so, we are sending every sword we can muster North. We would have you join them."

"The Hero of Baldur's Gate is once more called upon to defend her city," Captain Corwin chipped in. If the Dukes picked up on her dripping sarcasm, they did not show it. What choice was there? Without the Flaming Fist, the Hooded Man would have her. If the troops were heading North, then so must she.

"I stand ready," Freya replied.


	4. Dysentery

When Arrow returned to the chapel of Ilmater in her gnomish disguise, bearing the pheasants, her offerings were not greeted with the usual hungry enthusiasm. A young acolyte ran past her carrying a bucket to the nearest drain but would not stop to tell her what was wrong. The priest of Ilmater, his eyes bloodshot and face drawn, greeted the ranger at the doors with grim news. Dysentery had broken out in the night.

"It is highly infectious," he said, shaking his head sadly. "And no doubt it will claim the lives of some of the very old and very young who shelter here. I have suffered it once before myself, and have never endured pain like it. Arro- I mean Alix- I will not lie to you. Your food deliveries are badly needed. If you were to succumb it would make the situation worse. Nobody would think less of you if you did not pass these doors for a time."

Arrow peered inside. Even from this distance the smell was terrible, and she could hear the sound of vomiting and wails of pain. As the acolyte ran back from the drain with his empty bucket as fast as he could, a second novice came to the door with a full one to swap. This was a small chapel, there were only the priest and his two students. They would not be enough to care for so many sick.

"I have the highest constitution of anyone here," Arrow argued. "And if I were to catch it, Coran will hunt for us until I recover."

She might have added the words, _'I think,'_ to that statement. Coran had been undeniably helpful in setting the snares and he was an accomplished archer in his own right. He was more than capable of hunting without her. The question was to what extent his desire to help the refugees was sincere. He never came to the temple with her after their hunts. He always told her that he was 'busy' and that his 'skills were needed elsewhere.' Was he going into the wood to hunt game meat for them, or was it his own meat that he was more concerned with? It was difficult to tell with Coran.

Nevertheless, Arrow took a deep breath and strode into the chapel. Knowing that she was a useless cook, she held out one hand for the acolyte's bucket and passed him the dead pheasants with the other. The young man made the trade with undisguised relief and bolted headlong toward their makeshift kitchen. Arrow was followed inside by the weary priest who began to sit and pray with his people. There were around forty refugees sheltering in a chapel built for a congregation of just thirty. By the looks of things at least a quarter of them were infected, and doubtless more would follow. The priest seemed to be holding back his limited healing spells for the most serious cases.

In addition to the old people, there were three babies and a pair of toddlers. Arrow had never encountered dysentery before but judging by the faces of their frightened, haggard parents they were in terrible danger. The floors were swimming with bloody faeces from those unable to make it to the bucket. One man was too ill to stand and was lying listlessly in filth. She needed to clean, but what was she even supposed to clean with? Most of the refugees only came with the clothes on their backs and the blankets were needed.

She ran into the kitchen, pumped water into a spare cooking pot and pulled her regular tunic from her bag. The fatigued acolyte did not even look up from plucking the birds. The shit was not his problem for a few hours and he would take his respite while he had it. She soaked the tunic, wrung them out and began to scrub, starting with the least heavily soiled areas. Every ten minutes or so she had to take the water outside to empty it and pump fresh. While the other acolyte ran the buckets back and forth, and the priest tended to the sick, she took on the unglamorous job of keeping the accumulation of bodily fluids under control.

Day gave way to evening, evening to night. She necked a small amount of the broth that came from the kitchens, ignoring how it burned her throat on the way down and scrubbed on. She drank a lot more of the potion to keep her looking gnome-like, though it was probably a wasted effort. Even had she turned into Freya herself, most of these people were long past caring. At some point she must have slept because she woke up, slumped over one of the pews, changed the water in a zombie-like trance and scrubbed on.

Morning was creeping up on her. She would need to get to the Ducal Palace soon or Coran would wonder where she was. Despite having slept she did not feel well rested and the hunt would be hard. Just as she was thinking this, the temple door opened and a man stood framed in it. Thinking it was later than she had thought, and that the elf had come searching for her, she raised her wrinkled head, blinking dully. As her tired brain registered who she was seeing, a wave of nausea hit her that had nothing to do with dysentery.

Rasaad yn Bashir. The last person in Faerun she wanted to see. Arrow blanched. What could he be doing in a temple of Ilmater? Grateful to already be disguised, she tried to duck out of sight, scrubbing the floor with renewed energy. His shadow fell across her. She paused her cleaning and looked up at him resignedly.

"Oh no," she groaned. The man seemed puzzled by this response, and she remembered that she was Alix the gnome. As far as the monk was concerned, he did not know her.

"Pardon me," he said, "The priest was resting and I do not wish to disturb him. My name is Rasaad yn Bashir. I am working with the refugees sheltering in the Iron Throne Building."

"Alix Gardnersonson," lied Arrow. "Lovely to meet you. Well we'd best get back to work. Have a nice day Mr Bashir."

She turned her attention back to removing the red-brown stains with a determined focus. Her heart was hammering. She was terrified that the wobble in her voice would give her away. A treacherous part of her was so excited to see him again. She had to keep reminding herself that he had broken her heart repeatedly as they'd travelled through the sword coast. The last time they had split up he had practically blamed her for the death of his brother, Gamaz.

"Your dedication is an example that I will endeavour to follow. I beg only a moment of your time," he told her earnestly. She tutted, threw the ragged tunic to one side and glared up at him. If she left him in no doubt that he was unwelcome here, then hopefully he would leave quickly.

"Be brief young man," she snapped.

Rasaad was full of admiration. This tiny elderly gnome, in her blood and crap-stained clothes, was scowling at him in a most intimidating manner. Her white, fluffy hair was growing even out of her ears and hunching over a scrubbing brush on the hard stone floor must be uncomfortable at her age. Yet here she was, humbly doing what she could for these poor people. Arrow would have approved of her, he thought wistfully. Perhaps they had met, the ranger was also an Ilmatari after all. He pinched the back of his own hand discretely to snap himself out of thinking about Arowan. He had been trying this tactic for weeks and the patch of skin was quite sore now. At this rate he was likely to leave himself with permanent scarring.

"Yes ma'am. You were able to secure food, a whole deer, for the refugees at the temple. I'm not asking for gold," he added hastily, "Only the name of your contact so that we too might purchase fresh meat."

"We do not have a supplier as such," replied Arrow. "We have ordered grain from Beregost but it will not arrive for at least a week. A ranger has been hunting and setting snares for us in the woods outside the walls. Enough to keep this modest temple supplied but not to feed all those people sheltering in the former Iron Throne building. I'm afraid she won't be able to help you. The people here eat more than she can catch, yet they are still hungry. I fear if she were to supply your shelter as well, fights would break out over the meat."

"A ranger?" Rasaad felt a sudden rush of butterflies. He looked toward the door as if Arrow might come strolling in at any moment. "Does she catch much?"

"Yes actually!" snapped Arrow defensively. Her lack of success in this department had been a standing joke among the party during their last journey together. She remembered herself and got back into character. "Excuse me young man. As you can see, I have a great deal to do. Is that everything?"

"It is," said Rasaad, bowing respectfully. "I apologise for taking up your time."

"Goodbye," she said firmly. Arrow returned to her scrubbing, white hair dangling around her face. She tried to focus on the interesting wrinkly patterns on the backs of her small hands, and not on how the monk was making her feel.

She waited for him to go but he paused with his hand on the temple door as if suffering some internal struggle. Finally he turned and walked back to her.

" _Go away!"_ she thought desperately.

"Alix?"

"Mrs Gardnersonson," she corrected him sharply, hoping he had not seen through her disguise.

"Mrs Gardnersonson," he said apologetically, "This ranger, her name isn't Arrow by any chance is it? Or Arowan, sometimes she goes by Arowan?"

Rasaad berated himself internally for asking. It wasn't as if he didn't know where to find Arrow if he chose to. She slept in the Ducal Palace after all, all he need do was go to the gates and ask. He didn't even know why he asked if it was her, except that it made him oddly happy to think that she might be out in the city helping the refugees too. Almost as if they were helping them together.

He bit his lip. The gnome had gone far too long without answering the question. She had fixed him with what he interpreted to be a suspicious scowl.

"We are friends, I was one of her travelling companions for a while," he explained hastily. Of course, the gnome would be suspicious. There had been many assassination attempts on Arrow over the last few months. A stranger turning up and asking about her was bound to ring alarm bells.

"If I did know this Arrow would you like me to pass on a message?" the old gnome croaked.

"I… no. No," said Rasaad. "No, thank you. You've been very helpful. I…" his eyes flickered to the poor abused tunic in the gnome's shrivelled hands. "I will arrange to have firewood and fresh cleaning rags sent from our shelter to yours."

"We do not wish to deprive the other refugees," Arrow began carefully, though there was a note of hope in her voice. The threads were coming loose from the scrubbing-tunic. It would not survive much more ill treatment, and fire to sterilise the plates and laundry would certainly help.

"We have an anonymous donor," Rasaad gave her a small reassuring smile. "They have been keeping us supplied with more gold than we can use. Unfortunately there is no…"

"…no food to buy," Arrow finished for him. Her brown eyes met his dark, sincere gaze and she melted a little inside. Suddenly the door opened and the man she thought had been looking for her in the first place strolled in.

Rasaad bowed to her and stepped out. He passed Coran at the door to the shrine and the two of them exchanged brief pleasantries. The monk was not pleased to see the elf. He had heard rumours that the notorious seducer had been spending a lot of time with Arowan. There could be no other reason for him to be here. Coran's mind was not on the monk and his purpose there, however. For once he was not thinking with the content of his pants. He was looking around the dysentery-struck refuge and turning pale beneath his green mask.

"I was enquiring as to the source of meat in the temple," Rasaad said. His tone was a mixture of defensive and apologetic. If Coran were romantically involved with Arrow (the thought turned his stomach) he would not wish him to think that he had come here in search of her. "But their hunter cannot supply both temples."

"Yes, the hunter. That would be me," said Coran, hefting his bow. He was still staring in horror at the afflicted refugees.

"You?" Rasaad blinked. "Forgive me, Mrs Gardnersonson said that the ranger was a woman."

"Mrs who?" fumbled Coran. Then he remembered Glint and cottoned that Arrow had stolen his surname for her alter ego. He glanced at the elderly gnome who was watching them both with a worried expression. "Oh yes, Alix. Well you know how it is. She is obscenely old and all tall folk kind of look alike to her. She tells me that I am a very sweet young lady and I do not have the heart to correct her."

The ranger was not Arrow then. Rasaad felt rather foolish. The city was huge, what were the odds? So, Coran was the one supplying food to this shelter. Perhaps he was a more suitable mate for Arrow than he had supposed. Clearly he had misjudged the man. He returned to the Iron Throne feeling crushed.

Coran, meanwhile, stepped gingerly around the shivering, moaning people. A man shoved him roughly out of the way on his way to the bucket. He made no effort to be discrete in his use of it. Dignity had no place in this situation. The elf stumbled and his hand shot out to catch himself on one of the pews. When he lifted it, it came away dripping with blood and slime.

"Oh gods," he whispered.

"Coran?" asked Arrow.

"I never imagined it would be like this," he said quietly, looking around. "It isn't enough… they need more…"

Talk like this was hardly going to help morale. Arrow huffed impatiently and steered him through the temple and out of the back door. There was a small courtyard there.

"Why did you come here?" she demanded. If it was some sort of romantic surprise, then he had sorely misjudged the situation. Indulging his flirting was a fine bit of silly escapism out in the woods, but here she was not in the mood.

"They're looking for you," he said. "You didn't go back to the palace last night and there was an attack. They hurt Imoen. No don't worry, she's ok, but the assassins were sent by the woman who displaced all these refugees, Caelar Argent. This means war Arrow. It means war."

"But Coran, war will mean-"

"More refugees," he replied heavily. "I know."

As an elf, Coran did not age as a human would, and with his light-hearted demeanour it was easy to forget how much older than Arrow he actually was. He looked it now though. Frown lines were spreading over his forehead and his jaw was tense. What's more Arrow could actually _see_ the shape of his jaw. His double chin was gone. She hadn't noticed the change but over the last few months he had lost weight. It didn't suit him. It made him look ill and stretched.

She called the priest out into the courtyard and had him dispel magic to turn her back into human form. Though it seemed she would be forced to leave the city with Freya and the Flaming Fist, she did not want the Dukes to know about her disguise. That and navigating the streets as a gnome was a pain. Tall people were inconsiderate to the vertically disadvantaged. She changed into her normal trousers but had to keep the tight gnomish tunic, stained and constricting though it was. Her own was lying on the floor of the temple where she had used it as a scrubbing brush, beyond restoration.

The weight loss was not all that was different about Coran. As they walked toward the Ducal Palace, Arrow noticed him limping slightly on his right leg. He had not been doing so the previous morning when they went hunting, but he did not seem to want to talk about it. When she asked him how he had hurt himself, he brushed off the question and changed the subject.

"You look tired," observed Coran.

"Well that's a drastic change of strategy," replied Arrow dryly. "My eyes are not shining like the stars in the heavens? My smile is not the candle that lights your heart?"

"Your eyes are heavy like the saddlebags of a trading camel," replied Coran in the exact same tone of voice as he used to deliver his most gallant of compliments. "Your smile is absent and your chest is covered in what I can only hope is mud."

His efforts actually earned him a weak laugh.

"You hope in vain" she replied. She paused from massaging her temples to look up at the elf with a drained expression. She was too exhausted to be sad. "There's been an outbreak of dysentery at the temple. One man died in the night. Three more arrived to take his place. Soon they'll be sick too."

The ranger ran her filthy hands through her short, pixie-cut hair. Her head was pounding, her back was killing her and her knees were red and blistering from scrubbing the floors. Not even Coran could consider her worth pursuing in her current state. Arrow felt like shit, looked like shit and smelled like shit. Mainly because she was covered in shit. What's more, she was long past caring.

"They're leaving first thing tomorrow," Coran told her as they approached the Palace. Already guards had spotted her and were pushing their way through the people to bring her back. "They've asked you and Freya to regather your parties first."

"That's not possible," replied Arrow with a grim smile. Her party was well and truly disbanded. Xan had fled to Evereska. Viconia and Edwin had tried to kill her to get to Dynaheir. The only two she would have liked to accompany her were her adopted parents, Khalid and Jaheira, but they were not in the city. As for Rasaad… no. She would rather scoop out her own spleen with an oyster fork and eat it than beg the monk for help.

Inside the palace, she found that Freya was finding gathering a party equally problematic, but for different reasons.

"Skie, I am not taking Eldoth. I would not take Eldoth if Selune herself descended from the heavens and threatened to fuck my arse with the rough end of a broom if I refused!" Freya argued forcefully. She would bring Skie the moon itself if she asked for it but there were limits. Even when Skie's arms were folded and angry tears were rolling down her cheeks. "Besides I couldn't recruit him if I wanted to, he fled the city weeks ago!"

"Well maybe he wouldn't have done that if you'd been nicer to him!" Skie wailed.

"I was nice to him!" said Freya, holding her arms open in a helpless gesture. "He's still alive, isn't he? Come on Skie, please don't be mad at me."

"You threatened to kill him and eat him," Skie pouted, "Multiple times!"

Duke Silvershield noticed Arrow come in and nodded curtly. His eyes roved disapprovingly over her stained clothes. She looked over her shoulder and gave a guilty start as she realised that she had tracked stinking footprints into the palace. Not that she cared much about spoiling the Duke's finery given the circumstances, but some underpaid servant was going to wind up scrubbing that. She would warn them but if the palace staff became infected… Arrow winced. She ought to have considered that.

"That was a joke!" Freya appealed imploringly to Skie.

"Was it though?" grinned Coran unhelpfully.

"Well... the part about eating him was a joke," Freya admitted.

"We could send out runners to find him-" Skie began. Her father, Duke Silvershield, shook his head furiously but Freya responded first.

"No!" she thundered, using her elevated charisma to fire the words with such force that the palace portraits seemed to tremble in their gilded frames. "If Eldoth ever comes within twenty miles of Baldur's Gate again I am going to end him. I will rip out his bladder with my teeth, stuff it with what passed for his brain and give it to the local kids as a football!" She paused, wilting somewhat under Skie's furious eyes, and glanced up guiltily at the Duke. "Erm... pretend you didn't hear that milord."

"Not at all, werewolf," replied Duke Silvershield silkily, "Your murderous attitude toward my daughter's paramour is one of your very few redeeming qualities. I have located some of your former allies, however. You may be interested to know that one of yours, Arowan, turned up at the Flaming Fist asking to sign up to fight Caelar within an hour of the call to arms going out."

"Rasaad?" she asked, half-baulking, half-hopeful.

"No," replied the Duke, stroking his pointed beard between his fingertips. "Your cleric, Viconia DeVir."


	5. Viconia Returns

"What happened to the Moonchild?"

"Shut up Viconia!" snapped Arrow. Coran raised an eyebrow. He was drawn to her compassion for others. This vindictiveness was a side of the ranger that he had not witnessed before. It too was turning him on. They had told him, of course, how Viconia and Edwin had tried to murder Arrow to get to Dynaheir. What he had not picked up on until this point was the visceral hatred that these two women shared. It hung in the air between them like a noxious fog. He could almost taste it.

"He dumped you? You should make an example of him," sneered the drow. Her red eyes danced at Arrow wickedly. The ranger was staring determinedly at the stone walls of the Flaming Fist Headquarters, avoiding eye contact. "But I forgot. You are too feeble to do that aren't you?"

"See these brown stains upon my tunic?" Arrow asked her, in a quiet, dangerous voice. "I got these from the refugees in the Chapel of Ilmater. There's been an outbreak of dysentery."

"And you scoop their excrement like a common slave?" yawned Viconia. "Well aren't you wonderful. Just look at how impressed I am."

"If you don't stop talking to me, I will tear off a piece of infected fabric and make sure it finds its way into your next meal," said Arrow. Viconia smiled nastily and opened her mouth to retort but the ranger cut her off. "You think I'm bluffing? Try me."

Viconia folded her arms and fumed silently. This was not fair! It was none of the wretched Bhaalspawn's business if she wanted to join the army. Since Edwin had kicked her out she'd had no home, no job and nowhere to go. She had been obligated to pair up with a filthy duergar. Pfaug had claimed to need a cleric for an expedition he was putting together, but as soon as she had joined him, he had started pressuring her for other services.

This general call to arms to fight Caelar's crusade could not have come at a better time. Money, shelter and the protection of the Flaming Fist from those who would harm her for being a drow. She had gathered her few belongings and sprinted here to sign up. Everything had been signed and sealed but then, out of nowhere, Arowan had turned up. Now the spiteful little mouse was trying to ruin everything, telling her that she couldn't come. Well she had suffered enough at Arrow's hands! She was not about to take this lying down.

"If you had taken my advice and broken in Rasaad properly when you had the chance..." Viconia began again, unable to resist rubbing salt into her enemy's wound.

Arrow sprang to her feet, but was prevented from reaching the drow by Coran, who seized her around the middle and hauled her bodily backward. Viconia smirked at the pair of them. It seemed that the silly girl had replaced her moon monk with a darthiir, and not even an attractive one. How pathetic.

"Where's my drow?" hollered a shrill, wheedling voice. Pfaug was searching for her. Wonderful. He came bursting angrily into the side room where she and Arrow awaited Freya. The werewolf had gone to the Three Old Kegs to retrieve Minsc and Dynaheir but Arrow had headed straight to the Flaming Fist to tell Viconia to get lost. With an angry wrench, he shrugged his arm free of a Flaming Fist officer and came stomping over. "There she is. Now look here, this one is mine, and I want her back!"

"She's signed up," said the Officer threateningly. "Can't say I like it, fighting alongside a drow, but Duke Silvershield took her signature. She's ours until he says she can go."

"You dare think of me as a possession, Pfaug?" asked Viconia coldly. "Begone! I want nothing more to do with you."

A nasty smile was spreading over Arrow's face as she eyed this 'Pfaug'. The duergar reminded her sharply of a halfling thief they had once travelled with. He was leering, unkempt and his personal hygiene so poor that he smelled almost as bad as she did. The man opened his bearded mouth to argue but never got the chance.

"What's going on here?" barked Freya, striding loudly into the room. "Oh, bugger a goat!"

The Hero of Baldur's Gate had burst in, as usual, with the unstoppable confidence of a fully grown rhinoceros. Arrow had come to notice, in gnome form, how difficult it was for short people in a city of giants. At six-foot-three, Freya was one of the worst offenders. She failed to spot Pfaug, and walked straight into him. Her lower legs slammed into his flank but momentum kept her top half moving. She toppled over Pfaug's head, caught herself with her hands and managed to turn the move into a forward roll. This prevented her from landing on the duergar and crushing him, but it wasn't elegant, and she landed in an ungainly pile at Viconia's feet.

"So, DeVir. What are you doing here?" she asked, looking up at the drow from under her tousled hair like a great golden haystack.

"Well last I knew she was selling herself to Edwin," Arrow answered for her unkindly. "But I see you have downgraded lovers yet again Viconia. What's next when you're done banging this Montaron-clone? A nice slime ooze maybe?"

Viconia's lip was curling. She and Arrow had tested each other in battle before. The fact was that she was capable of taking out the ranger in her sleep. Yet in the middle of the Flaming Fist headquarters with Freya and Coran right there, any attempt to do so would amount to suicide. Besides she had to convince Freya to take her side over Arrow's and that meant keeping the moral high-ground.

"If you're interested," sneered Arrow to Viconia, pressing her advantage, "I know of a woman who keeps a pair of unusually life-like male zombies. Nobody has seen her in a while, but I could make enquiries if you're interested in dating one of them?"

Viconia swallowed her pride and hung her head. She could act when she needed to, and she needed to now. This was not going to be an easy sell. Dynaheir had been part of Freya's party when she herself was with Arrow's. She had tried to murder her witch. That said, it was not personal. It had been Edwin's mission to kill Dynaheir not her own. Added to that, from what little she had seen, Freya and Arrow did not get on particularly well. That was what she had to work with.

Well… maybe not _all_ she had to work with. She leaned forward to where Freya was sat in a heap on the floor, lowering her chest strategically as she did so to make sure that the werewolf could not miss the view. She moved in so far that her silky white hair was almost brushing the Hero's tangled gold. It worked. The Hero of Baldur's gate coughed nervously and swallowed. Arrow watched the display with deep irritation.

"I beg you would let me come with you to fight the crusade," Viconia told her beseechingly, her red eyes as wide as they could go. With some effort, Freya was forcing herself to look at them and not anywhere else. "I only wish to be of assistance."

"Finally, Freya's here and we can put an end to this nonsense," snapped Arrow. "Send her back to the gutter where she belongs!"

"My sister is right," shrugged Freya, with a disarming smile. "No offence."

"I'd expect such a heartless attitude from her!" cried Viconia, trying a different tack. Her eyes flashed angrily and she rose to her feet. Freya quickly scrambled to her own looking thoroughly confused as the cleric jabbed an accusing finger at her chest. "Of course, no Ilmatari would give an 'evil dark elf' a chance, but I thought you would be different! A Bhaalspawn should understand! People assuming you are evil just for what you were born!"

"Well… I…" stammered Freya.

"What fresh garbage is this?" yelled Arrow furiously. " _I'm_ a Bhaalspawn too! And I did give you a chance, you used it to try to murder me! Freya, you cannot seriously be falling for this?"

"Arrow has a point Viconia," Freya said doubtfully. Coran nodded fairly, though his eyes were fixed wistfully on the cleric's chest.

"I'm sorry," said Viconia, and her ruby eyes welled with tears. Arrow's jaw dropped at the bare faced cheek of it. She had switched from seductive to angry and now to weeping in less than a minute! "I didn't want to hurt you Arrow, Edwin made me." She turned back to Freya. "It's different for you, you're the Hero of Baldur's Gate! Imagine if you had to survive in this world, facing all the prejudice against you without your powers?"

That struck a nerve. Freya would have shared Viconia's terrifying fate if not for Gorion, and she knew it. After she received her bite, her adopted father had crept into the vaults of Candlekeep and stolen magical tomes for her. Tomes to enhance her strength, her skill and most especially her charisma. Dad had not believed that she would be able to weather the storm of discrimination she was destined to suffer without these artificial aids. And if she could not do it, was it fair to expect Viconia to?

"I am at the mercy of any man who will take me in, even that Pfaug" Viconia pressed. She ignored the duergar's offended snort. "It is no sort of life. With the Flaming Fist I could be free of them, if only for a short time. Please let me join. I promise to stay out of the way. You won't even know I'm here."

"I would Viconia," Freya sighed, convinced. "I really would, but you tried to murder Dynaheir. How are we all supposed to travel together?"

"Idiot," Arrow muttered under her breath.

"Thou hast the right of it!" declared a Rashemen voice. Viconia's heart sank as Dynaheir herself strode into the room, glaring down her nose at her imperiously. Her bodyguard, still with that ridiculous hamster riding on his shoulder, squeezed his way into the room after her. It was getting rather cramped. With a curse, Pfaug wriggled his way out of the room, telling Viconia to seek him out at the Three Old Kegs once they rejected her.

"Dynaheir please," said Viconia in a last ditch appeal. "It was not personal. I have nothing against you, nothing! I was only trying to survive in a hostile world. Edwin would have taken me to Thay where I could have carved out a life of sorts for myself. Any time the crowds could turn on me and destroy me for what I am, and I would get no justice. I wake every day and fear that it will be my last." She shot a cunning glance at the werewolf. "They assume that I am irredeemably evil because of what I am. They think me a monster."

"Alright Viconia," said Freya, firmly. "Since Arrow will not have you, you may join my party."

Minsc, Arrow and Dynaheir all started to protest loudly at the same time. Their voices bounced around the walls of the small cell in an echoing cacophony. Freya, whose lycanthropy left her with very sensitive hearing and whose nose was already suffering from the presence of Pfaug, bowed hastily and excused herself to the fresh air outside. Coran shrugged at Arrow, looking annoyingly amused by the whole situation, and followed.

"What now?" cried Minsc loudly. "We cannot join forces with the woman who tried to murder Minsc's witch!"

"Yet I must venture North with the army to continue my investigations into Caelar Argent," mused Dynaheir, glaring furiously in the direction Freya had gone. "Arowan, thou hast disbanded thine party hast thou not? Wouldst thou consider a new alliance?"

"I think we'd better Dynaheir," replied the ranger who was literally shaking with fury. She had never exactly rated Freya as smart, but she'd had no notion that she was _this_ gullible. "At least with three of us taking turns to keep watch we can get enough sleep. Otherwise we're both likely to get our throats cut in our bedrolls."

The drow chuckled in triumph. Minsc raised his fist threateningly, but Dynaheir grasped his wrist and led him out to join the others. Arrow and Viconia were left alone together once more. The cleric was looking extremely pleased with herself.

"Looks like I just got an upgrade on my lover, rivvil. So tell me," smirked Viconia. Without taking her eyes off of Arrow, she undid the top three buttons of her tunic, showing off her best assets to full effect. "How long do you think it will take me to convince Freya to send you the same way as your brothers?"

Arrow turned and stormed out of the cell, almost bowling over an irritated guard. As they left, the groans and pleas of prisoners rang in her ears, but for once she was to angry to feel any pity for them. A group of guards, helmets under their arms were gathered around a small table. As she passed by they hastily hid their ales and their dice. Outside of the Flaming Fist headquarters their two groups reported to Captain Corwin. Arrow, Minsc and Dynaheir formed one little faction. Freya, Coran and Viconia the other. Arrow was neither surprised nor offended that Coran had chosen the werewolf. His lovers tended to come and go, whereas Freya had been his friend and party leader for a long time.

"Is that it then? Ready to head back?" asked Corwin, restlessly. They were not. Freya had one more stop she wanted to make at the Elfsong Inn. When she told the Captain why they were going, Corwin actually threw back her head and laughed. "You're going to ask _her_ back into your party? The brass balls on you! Well, if you insist. It's your funeral!"

Arrow privately had to agree with Captain Corwin. For Freya to try and recruit Safana after she and Coran's affair was madness. It seemed to her that only somebody optimistic to the point of insanity would even attempt such a thing, and she was swiftly proven right.

"Out! Get out you vile poxy snake!"

"Safana…" Coran began weakly.

"I rue the day I ever heard your name you wretched weasel!" Safana cried. Arrow stopped on the stairs, hand frozen on the bannister. This fight sounded like it was going to be vicious and the ranger had no desire to get caught in the crossfire. Viconia was waiting anxiously for her party outside the door but Minsc and Dynaheir were beating a hasty retreat toward the bar. Arrow opted to join them.

"I'm a weasel and a snake? That doesn't make sense," Coran joked unwisely.

"I don't know why I was even surprised that you slept with Coran!" Safana cried, stalking Freya out of the room like an angry tiger. Though she was a foot and a half taller than the thief, Freya backed up nervously in the face of her wrath. Viconia stepped swiftly to one side, trying to blend in with the wallpaper.

"Really?" stammered Freya, "Because to be honest, _I_ was pretty surprised."

"Well he was a woman at the time," hissed Safana poisonously. "So, I'm assuming that you ate his pussy out?"

"Er…?" Freya hazarded, still backing away until the small of her back hit the bannister. Safana's eyes gleamed dangerously. She was holding a dagger in her hand, and though she could not possibly have a chance at defeating Freya in combat, she seemed angry enough to try it anyway.

"Well that explains everything doesn't it?" Safana said sweetly. " _Dogs_ love sticking their noses into trash!"

"Humans can't call werewolves 'dogs' Safana, we've been through this," stammered Freya, leaning her neck back from the advancing point of the dagger. The thief let out a howl of rage and pulled the blade back ready to strike. Already the Hero of Baldur's Gate was bent back perilously over the staircase and she decided that the safest thing to do was just go the rest of the way. She pitched herself over the railing, somersaulted backward and landed ungracefully but uninjured on the stairs below.

"I've got a dagger here you know!" Safana screeched at her. This was pretty obvious since she had thrust it into the empty space above Freya's head, where her throat had been moments before. "Do you two think I won't use it? Go! Get out of here! Get out of here!"

"Hey, don't be like that!" Freya called up with a grin. She was a lot cockier now that she was safely out of reach of Safana's blade. "There's no need for jealousy. You know I'll happily sleep with you too! Both of you at once so long as Coran puts his girdle on!"

"I swore I'd never wear that thing again but if it'd help…" Coran began.

"There is something seriously wrong with both of you! Get out! OUT!" Safana exploded.

Coran and Freya sprinted down to the bar, leaving their angry partner behind them. As they reached the bottom of the stairs the other guests, who had been listening to the fight in rapt silence, exploded with laughter. This did not phase the elf, though the werewolf at least had the decency to look slightly ashamed of herself. As the merriment of the entertained patrons died away, a man could be heard singing.

" _No matter what you do,_

_I will always love you!_

_No matter what you say,_

_You will never drive me away._

_I sing for you this song of love-"_

"Oh, fucking hell! This inn has a bard infestation," growled Freya. "Let's get out of here."

A mischievous grin flickered over Coran's elfin features. She had always had the strangest dislike of music. Once, on their travels, they had visited an island of her own kind. There they had learnt that to a werewolf real music was the howling vocals of the pack. Screechy, scraping human instruments tended to grate on her nerves. Added to that their encounters with Eldoth, and Freya's natural aversion to bards had blossomed into a full-blown phobia.

"I can hear you singing again Garrick!" the landlady yelled in a warning tone. The young bard was following her around the tavern, singing his heart out. Clearly he knew that he was breaking some sort of house rule but he seemed determined to keep it up.

"Some people like my singing dearest Alyth," Garrick sighed.

"Minsc likes your singing!" the Rashemen boomed suddenly. "And so does Boo. You wrote our favourite song! Though we would have liked it even better if that witch-murdering Edwin had been sliced in half at the end too. You must sing 'Ode to Thorg' to us!"

"I am trying to sing a song of wooing," protested Garrick snootily. "She resists my charm but I will wear her down eventually."

"Creep," Coran muttered behind Arrow. He was watching the bard with narrowed eyes. Arrow's lip twitched.

Between the drama at the chapel and Viconia's unwelcome reappearance, it had been a difficult day, but her mood was starting to lift again. The Elfsong was warm and smelled of honey-ale, and unlike the rest of the city the guests here seemed to be in a good mood. She wished that she was not covered in shit from the Chapel. Over time she'd gotten used to the smell, but every so often she'd turn her head and catch a whiff of it. Were it not for that, she might have been tempted to stay with Coran by the fire and make an evening of it.

"Very well bard," sighed Minsc, disappointed. "It is just as well that you do not sing it because the song is not finished yet. One day soon, Minsc and Boo will place the righteous boot of justice upon that Red Wizard's ignoble behind. Then little Garrick may write another verse!"

The party stopped for a quick drink while they were there. Viconia even managed to persuade Corwin to join her and Freya for an ale, though the Captain kept a firm hand over her drink to prevent the werewolf from putting anything in it. This was not entirely baseless suspicion. Freya and Coran had knocked her out in a tavern once in order to steal her uniform and impersonate her. Oddly enough, Corwin was having a hard time letting it go.

Coran joined Arrow at the bar, though she was wearing the same stained and stinking tunic from the temple and everybody else was giving her a wide berth. Her eyes flickered to the bard and she raised a teasing eyebrow at the elf.

"So you think Garrick is a 'creep' do you?" she baited him. "I would have thought him a man after your own heart!"

"You mistake me," replied Coran stiffly. To Arrow's surprise he looked genuinely offended. "When have I ever harassed a woman who wished me gone? Or made promises I never intended to keep? Yes, I spend time with many different lovers and if some of them hope to change my mind about settling down then they are more than welcome to try, but I am open about my intentions. Just like you are."

That was certainly an alternative way of looking at it, and yet there was truth in this. Arrow had been upfront about her beliefs about sex outside of marriage, but she enjoyed Coran's attempts to convince her otherwise. He played the same game but from the opposite side.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You are right, you're not really like Garrick. I just meant that-"

"We both like women?" finished Coran, still a shade affronted. "And I make no apology for that, but unlike Garrick I take no for an answer. I'll always hold out hope for a maybe, but a no is a no."

Arrow glanced over at the others. Minsc was taking it upon himself to sing a song about badgers, irritating the landlady, though seemingly not as much as Garrick had done. Corwin and Freya were listening to Viconia spin her tale of the hardships she had suffered since leaving the Underdark. Both women were watching her beautiful face with rather dopey expressions. None of them seemed like they were in any hurry to leave.

"I'm going to head back to the Ducal Palace," Arrow said to Coran. "I want to make sure Imoen is ok and, you know. Wash."

"Might I walk you home?" he asked, offering his hand.

"Yes," she said. She paused and looked sideways at him. He had a sweet teasing lilt and though not conventionally attractive his auburn hair and bright green eyes were very striking. She would never want to be in love with him but physically… she took his hand and gave him a small smile. "Maybe."

As they walked out the door together, in silence, both grinning slightly, they were met by a contingent of Flaming Fist Officers. Assuming that they had been called out over Freya and Safana's tavern brawl, or trouble with the refugees, they made to walk past them. In response, all eight guards drew their swords in unison and blocked their way. Arrow looked at Coran, but the man's face mirrored none of her confusion. She was struck by the powerful impression that he knew exactly why they were there.

"Stop where you are!" their leader barked. "Coran of Tethir, you are under arrest!"

"On what charge?" cried Arrow. The Flaming Fist Officer frowned at her, recognizing the Grand Dukes' guest.

"Apologies for the inconvenience my Lady," he nodded, "But this… I hesitate to call him a man… This selfish pig has been taking advantage of the chaos in the city to steal a fortune in gems, gold and worse! He took badly needed healing scrolls from Sorcerous Sundries."

"Coran, is it true?" asked Arrow. The elf made no reply, but his expression spoke volumes. He glared at the guard defiantly, as two of his fellow officers seized Coran's arms roughly. She watched them, frightened and out of her depth. This called for someone with charisma. "Freya!" she cried, putting her head around the door of the Elfsong. "Freya, help!"

"Move it scumbag!" the guard bellowed at Coran, jabbing the point of his sword so that it lightly pricked the thief in the back. "You make me sick! As if the city weren't suffering enough already."


	6. Rob the Rich

"You arse. You absolute fucking arse," Freya growled.

On the other side of the cell door, Coran stood with his arms folded over his chest. They were heavily bruised from his treatment by the guards and he sported a black eye, which was suspicious considering that he had not resisted arrest. Even so, his predicament had not curried his party leader's sympathy. Not least because of his flat-out refusal to explain himself.

"Where did you hide the loot Coran?" she repeated, slamming her fist against the cell door in frustration. Her efforts only served to disturb a large spider who had spun her web between the bars, but it had no effect on the elf. He glared at her from under his green mask, tight-lipped.

Freya pushed herself from the cell with both hands and paced the hall in frustration. Unfortunately this brought her face to face with her perpetual shadow, Captain Corwin. The blasted woman was enjoying this. It had been very apparent how much she had relished their scrap with Safana too. Corwin hated all three of them. Freya snarled and turned from the smirking officer before she did something they'd both regret, running her fingers distractedly through her long golden hair.

Apart from Corwin and the prisoners in the neighbouring cells, she and Coran were alone. The others had returned to the Ducal Palace to clean up and prepare for the journey ahead. They had wanted to come but Freya had sent them away. Coran had stolen from some important and powerful people, and from the sound of things he had stolen _a lot._ He was in deep trouble and the last thing he needed right now was to be seen with her uncharismatic sister and a drow. It was going to take all her powers of persuasion to keep the bloody man from the noose.

"Why in the nine hells would you risk stealing from a wizard's shop? Did it not occur to you that he might have put magical trackers on the goods?" snapped Freya. "And seriously, didn't you make enough gold from our last adventure to retire to Waterdeep? Or to start that business you said you'd set up once you had enough cash?"

"The rest of us didn't come out of that as rich as you did," pointed out Coran, a shade resentfully.

"Or as scarred!" bellowed Freya. "I take most of the blows, I take most of the loot!"

"Seriously?" Corwin gave a derisive snort from the corner. Freya narrowed her grey eyes at her.

Though she generally liked the Flaming Fist, and not just because their uniforms could make a sow look sexy, she was finding this prison problematic. If they were willing to take an unprovoked swing at Coran's face, a popular man with powerful friends, how were the poor likely to be treated? What's more there was a serious hygiene problem in here. Damp green slime grew freely up the walls, black rot covered the ceiling and the place was infested with rats. Diseases would spread quickly. Prisoners were supposed to serve short sentences here, not die awaiting trial.

"Fifty percent to me, fifty percent split between the rest of the party," growled the werewolf, feeling that she was not the one who ought to be defending herself here. Corwin looked at her, disgusted. "That's still more than they would have made travelling with anybody else. Which begs the question Coran, why did you go on this reckless crime spree? Wasn't it enough?"

"No," replied the elf flatly. "I'd spent it in less than a month."

"On what?" gasped Freya weakly. Her own portion of the profits from her adventures had secured her place as one of the richest people in Baldur's Gate. Coran's share, while substantially smaller, ought to have been enough for him to live off in relative comfort for the rest of his life.

"There are thousands of desperate people coming to this city, people with nothing!" Coran spat angrily. "What was I supposed to do? Walk past starving children and let them die?"

There was a long silence. Freya stared at him in horrified disbelief. There was no snide response to this even from Corwin. She was looking from elf to werewolf as though she didn't know what to think. Finally Freya gave a roar of frustration and kicked the cell door so hard that splinters flew off.

"You spent your gold on the fucking beggars?" she howled in fury. "Have you lost your mind? Or… no. Is this about impressing a woman? Please, Coran, before my brain melts out of my ears. Tell me that you did not give away a fortune, that we almost died dozens of times amassing, just to get into Arowan's knickers."

"Arrow doesn't know," replied Coran.

Freya let out a disgusted snarl and shook her head. For a moment her grey eyes met his green ones and she bared her teeth like an angry jackal. Then he shrugged and grinned disarmingly and she deflated a little. His cell had a slop bucket and a bug ridden mattress to sleep on. No wonder he was standing so stiffly. Anywhere he sat would see him either drenched in mould or infested with lice.

"Look Coran, I can't get you out of here if you don't give the stuff you stole back," said Freya reasonably. "Surely this treasure can't be worth more than your life?"

"I can't give it back," said Coran, gritting his teeth. "I don't have it. I stole that stuff for the refugees, it'll be in the stalls and pockets of a thousand different merchants by now."

"Coran!" bellowed Freya despairingly. "Is it not enough that the gods piss on me, a psychopath stalks me, and the Grand Dukes are dragging me off to war? Now you see fit to drop your trousers and shit in my mouth as well! Damn you!"

"Well he has some guts you have to admit," chipped in Corwin, who was a little impressed despite herself. Though it was still with obvious pleasure that she added, "He will hang for this."

"No, he doesn't and no he won't," growled Freya irately, pushing her face close to the bars and squeezing them as though she were imagining Coran's throat under her fingers instead. "He knows I won't let him hang which is why he's still so blasé about this whole situation. Trust me he would not be so bleeding cock-sure if he didn't know I'd bail him out. Arsehole!"

The atmosphere in the prison was not improving her temper. While she normally enjoyed the interesting smells and noise of the city, the recent influx of people had driven it to a level where it was becoming overwhelming. This was especially true in here where the combined stench of vomit, body odour and stale drink was making her sinuses swell. Were it not for the threat of the Hooded Man, she would leave Baldur's Gate until things returned to normal. This was no place right now for a lycanthrope to be.

"You are going to pay back the people he stole from then?" enquired Corwin, looking disappointed.

"Yessss…" Freya answered reluctantly through her teeth. "Provided they agree to let him go, obviously."

"The merchants will drop charges if that's the only way they can get their money back," said Captain Corwin. "But the wizard who runs Sorcerous Sundries is a different story. He always insists on maximum punishment for burglars."

"Then I guess we're going to Sorcerous Sundries next!" declared Freya. She noted, to add to her mounting irritation, that Coran had still not apologised. "In the meantime enjoy your cell. Arse."

When Freya returned to the Ducal Palace, having stopped off at Sorcerous Sundries and a blacksmith on the way, she found the two parties waiting on the steps. Minsc had a tight grip on Arrow's wrist, and Viconia was laughing at her. Freya groaned audibly at the sight of them. She was getting fatigued and still had to go back to the Flaming Fist Headquarters to secure Coran's release. Whatever situation she was walking into now, it did not look good.

"We have to go to the Iron Throne building," said Arrow, before Freya could ask. "Let's make it brief."

Viconia was doubled over, squeaking with laughter so hard that her red eyes were watering.

"What did you do?" Freya asked carefully, but the drow was too helpless with glee to answer, so Dynaheir replied for her.

"Duke Silvershield hath determined the location of Arowan's former ally, the monk Rasaad yn Bashir," she told Freya rather coldly. Despite having Arrow to travel with instead, the Rashemen was still cross that Freya had accepted Viconia into her party. She looked to Arrow. "Suffice it to say that thou ist unenthusiastic about renewing the acquaintance."

"I ist-n't keen-eth," Arrow understated. "So Viconia started draping herself over the Duke and telling him _wonderful_ things about Rasaad. How he has more muscles than an ogre. How he is the greatest warrior that she has ever seen. How he raises morale in the group and what a shining example his discipline would be to the troops. Just to spite me of course. By the time she had finished the Duke was ordering me to go and fetch him."

Freya scowled at the cleric disapprovingly. This was not a nice trick. Arrow and Rasaad had split up quite acrimoniously, with the monk blaming her for the death of his brother. This was unfair in the werewolf's opinion. She had seen the effect of the numbing potions that Gamaz had been taking. She'd seen their effect on her own brother. They sapped the drinker of all feeling and left them marching on like zombies toward whatever their most recent goals had been, undeterred by mercy or empathy. Arrow had been right not to attempt to have him resurrected after Rasaad had struck the killing blow.

Still, orders were orders, and already the dutiful Captain Corwin was shepherding them in the direction of the Iron Throne. Might as well tag along. It was on the way to the Flaming Fist prison anyway and she had no objection to leaving Coran to sweat for a bit longer given the circumstances.

As they arrived outside of the Iron Throne it was worse, in some ways, than the Chapel of Ilmater. The building was larger, better funded and better known. It was also attracting more people, to the extent that they seemed to be rotating the occupants. They had devised a system of letting people eat, rest and eat again before turfing them out to make way for the next round of refugees. Arrow bit her lip guiltily. It was here that the Chapel had directed people to when they were full, assuming that room could be found or alternative arrangements would be made. They hadn't been.

"Gods look at all these people," Corwin sighed to Freya and Viconia. "This is bad, Freya. Bad for the Fist, bad for the Dukes, bad for the city."

"The headquarters of the Iron Throne," Freya muttered, looking up at it. Last time she had been here she had half-gutted the place searching for Gorion's murderer. She'd thought finding and punishing them would make her feel better, and it did, but not much. "Why put the refugees in this gods forsaken place?"

"The Iron Throne crumbled after you felled Sarevok," explained Corwin. "The Dukes took possession of its property, including this place. Now this monument to greed and avarice shelters those most in need. Poetic, no? Duke Jannath's idea, I think."

"Bloody stupid idea," replied Freya, her grey eyes absorbing the scene. "It's in the middle of a main road, look how all the people are blocking traffic and making the overcrowding worse. And it wasn't designed to be used at night, it has open balconies and huge windows. It must be fucking freezing. Only staircases at one end of the building, so gods preserve those people if there's a fire. And how in Selune's name are they managing the privies?"

"The Dukes are doing their best," argued Corwin. "How would you have done it, genius?"

"Tents in the woods outside the city walls," replied Freya immediately. "Gets in the way of the day to day running of the city less and there's some shelter from the trees and space to dig privy pits. Less impact on the locals and you wouldn't have to keep turfing people in and out of buildings."

Corwin looked at the werewolf sideways. The warrior was no academic and her wisdom was near non-existent. It would be fair in many contexts to describe her as 'stupid' and yet she had been known to come up with surprisingly good strategies. She made a mental note to suggest tents to the Dukes later. No need to mention that it had been Freya's idea.

"Holy men and women of a number of different faiths run the operations here day-to-day," she said. "Among them this Rasaad. I didn't get a chance to talk to him much before he and Arowan… well."

Freya hadn't either, though she had seen him fight in her dreams. He was reasonably competent on the battlefield though Viconia's honeyed words to Duke Silvershield were an exaggeration. She and Arrow had shared many dreams of each other's battles and those of the other Candlekeep Bhaalspawn. They shared a link, through Imoen, that other Bhaalspawn did not. Recently, though, these visions which she had endured since childhood had come to an abrupt end. She and Arrow lived together now, slept at the same times and neither had done much battling lately. All of their other Candlekeep siblings were dead.

At length, she coughed testily. Dynaheir, likewise, was drumming her slender fingers impatiently on her arm, though Minsc was looking around in a good-naturedly vacant sort of way. Arrow had paused with her hand hovering over the door, not wanting to go in but having no choice. Helpfully and with a sparkling smile, Viconia pulled it open for her and shoved the ranger in.

Inside, the floors were crammed with sleeping bags. Few of the refugees were walking around. Most seemed to be trying to catch as much sleep in this place of relative safety as they could before they were moved on. They had pulled their blankets over their faces to avoid the worst of the buzzing throngs of flies. Priests patrolled between the rows of sleepers, casting healing magics on the sick and conjuring small blasts to scare away the rats. As usual, Corwin waited by the entrance, but Freya went in after the others. She noticed with a pang of guilt, that the priests had used up their spells and were reading off of scrolls. Scrolls stolen by Coran no doubt. He was right, she had been ignoring the refugee crisis, and perhaps she should have been doing more. Or even doing anything.

As soon as Freya stepped through the door, those refugees who were awake started pointing and whispering. They were soon joined by the tired, distracted priests and at once she realised that she should have stayed outside with Corwin. It was too late though, and the Hero was swiftly mobbed, as Viconia slunk into the shadows. Her red eyes glared out malevolently at Arrow and Rasaad, relishing the ranger's discomfort.

"Help us please!" cried one of the priests to Freya. "Ask the Dukes to come here, they listen to you. Once they have seen the suffering for themselves I know that they will do more."

"Look what Caelar's crusade has done to us!" cried an emaciated woman. "What is our 'Hero' going to do about it?"

"Fear not!" boomed Minsc happily. "The Hero and Minsc and Boo and all our friends march North on the morrow to kick the butt of this Caelar Argent and free your homes for you!"

This met with a small cheer. Dynaheir facepalmed, while Freya gave them a nervous doggy-grin. She was not particularly worried about this Caelar or her army, but the plight of these people was more complex than simply defeating the crusade and setting them on the road back home. Their fields were stripped, their homes razed to the ground. What were they supposed to eat while they planted and rebuilt? She was glad that these things were the Dukes' problem and not hers, though she had little confidence in their ability to handle them.

"Hey Hero, can you turn into a doggy for us? I miss my dog!" piped up a small child. Freya did not have the heart to explain to him that werewolves considered the terms 'dog' and 'bitch' to be racist insults. Nevertheless she could not oblige him by transforming. Doing so here might cause a panic. His request, however, launched a hundred others.

"Spare a gold coin or a bite of bread!"

"May I have a lock of your hair?"

"Bless my child, demigod!"

Meanwhile Arrow had found her monk. He was tending to some refugees in a corner at the back of the room, but he had stood up to see what all the commotion was about. As soon as he saw who it was he froze, staring at Arrow, his expression unreadable. Her own was a mixture of red-faced humiliation and fury that Viconia had tricked the Duke into making her do this. Well, best to get it over with.

"What is this?" cried Rasaad as she approached unwillingly. "Is it truly you I see before me?"

"No Rasaad, it is the drow goddess Lolth," replied Arrow dryly. "I got in the way of a gnomish combine harvester and it chopped my extra legs off, but I promise it's still me."

"How… have you been?" he asked lamely. This was totally unexpected and his pulse pounded so hard in his throat that it threatened to strangle him with every beat. He had missed her and thought of her constantly. Various scenarios of their meeting again had been rehearsed over and over in his head, and yet now that she was standing in front of him his mind swam and he could think of nothing to say.

"Fine," she said coldly. "And you?"

Her hair had grown back. Not as long as it had been when they had first met, of course, but enough for her to style it into a pixie cut. Memories of nervously brushing his lips over hers surfaced uncomfortably and, in his panic, he gave perhaps the worst answer possible.

"I still mourn the death of my brother Gamaz," he said. "Some days are better than others."

Arrow pulled a face like she had been stabbed through the stomach. They had gone their separate ways because of Rasaad partially blaming her for his brother's death. He had not thought of that when he brought it up, he was simply answering her question honestly. Arrow, who had only asked how he was as a courtesy, briefly considered having a Safana-style tantrum but the sleeping refugees did not need that.

"If you can get to breakfast without being drafted into the army, it's a good day. Or so I'm told," she said frostily.

"The day's first meal is important, it sets the tone for what is to come," began Rasaad. Arrow made no attempt to disguise her eyeroll. There was a time when she had found the monk's predisposition to take everything literally adorable but now, like most things about him, it got on her nerves. "Wait, are you saying that you've been drafted to fight Caelar?"

"The army heads North, Freya and I must go with them," she replied resignedly. "Without the protection of the Flaming Fist it is a safe bet that the Hooded Man will do to me what he did to Eric. It has been months, perhaps he has given up on capturing us, but we can't risk it."

Rasaad's guts squirmed at this. He knew very well that the Hooded Man, Irenicus, had not given up. Indeed he had come to Rasaad offering a bargain. To leave Arrow alone in exchange for delivering Freya to him alone outside of the city gates. The monk had not considered this offer, not only because it was dishonourable but because he lacked the means to fulfil it. He and the Hero of Baldur's Gate were barely acquainted. Why would she follow him out of the city for no reason? Nevertheless, Arrow had described Eric's torture at Irenicus' hands to him in some detail and the thought of her sharing her brother's doom was unbearable.

"So, this is no social call then?" he deduced. Arrow glared at him, tight lipped. "You know there are few things that I would not do for you my friend, but I cannot help you in this."

Though she tried to hide it, Arrow was seething. She had been forced against her will to come crawling to him for help, and he was rejecting her again. Rasaad swallowed. He ought to tell her about Irenicus' offer, but what could she do with such a warning except worry and tell Freya. That was not the reason he held his tongue though, nor why he had not told the Fist immediately after Irenicus had come to him. The real reason he could not bear to admit to himself, because it went against everything he believed in. Yet if it came down to it, if Irenicus were to take Arrow, he had the option to trade Freya to secure her release. If Freya were forewarned, that option would be gone.

"While most focus on Caelar's crusade, another more subtle darkness is spreading," Rasaad told Arrow. After everything that they had been through together he owed her an explanation. "In the past few weeks several servants of Selune have vanished."

Freya's canine ears caught his words. With astonishing speed, she ducked her petitioners and skidded to a halt at Arrow's side.

"Good," said Arrow. "I was ordered by Silvershield to fetch you but if you do not wish to come, I certainly shan't mourn the absence. As you know the Ilmatari consider suffering in the place of others holy. You should tell your unfortunate charges that. It may offer them some comfort as they suffer listening to your boring sermons in my place. Goodbye."

She strode from the building, leaving Rasaad staring after her in stunned disbelief. Did she really find him boring? He had been right about one thing. Judging by the stains on her tunic, she had come from the Chapel of Ilmater. Coran had lied to him, she was their ranger after all, and clearly spending so much time with Alix Gardnersonson was rubbing off on her. Her sharp tone could have come straight from the elderly gnome's own mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Viconia, lurking in the shadows and laughing at them. He turned away.

"Woah, hold up!" barked Freya. "What's this about missing Selunites?"

"Art thou certain foul play has occurred?" asked Dynaheir, joining the conversation now that Arrow had left and it was no longer personal. "These are turbulent times. Perhaps thy colleagues are engaged in their own business and simply neglected to tell thee?"

"I cannot deny the possibility," said Rasaad, "But it is a risk I cannot afford to take."

"Fair enough," replied Freya. Though nobody could accuse her of piety she was, in her own way, a dedicated follower of Selune herself. "Listen, I can't help search for them, we march North tomorrow but is there anything I can do? Money? Contacts?"

"I thank you, no," replied Rasaad. "We have the patronage here of a generous anonymous donor. Though there is little food to be bought, and no space, we want for nothing else."

"Ah…" said Freya. Rasaad studied the werewolf's handsome face. That did not sound like a good sort of 'ah.' She um'd and ah'd for a moment and then said, "Hypothetically what would happen if those donations were to… stop abruptly?"

Rasaad had suspected that the anonymous donor was probably the Hero of Baldur's Gate. She was the only person he knew of who was both wealthy enough to part with such large sums and who would not stand to gain politically by broadcasting her generosity. Still if the war meant that she had to stop then they would manage. He placed a reassuring hand on Freya's arm and smiled.

"Ah, so it was you then. I thought so. You are truly the Hero of Baldur's Gate," he said. Freya cringed guiltily. "I cannot pretend that your donations ceasing will not have an impact, but I understand that you need your resources if you are to stop the crusade. Thank you for everything that you have done."

"I… er… didn't do anything," Freya admitted sheepishly. "Your donor was Coran."

Rasaad sat down suddenly, as a storm of unhappiness broke over him. If this was true then he had misjudged the man on many levels. Coran was a fine match for Arrow, and a better one than himself. Certainly not one that she could ever accuse of being 'boring.' He tried to will himself to be happy for her and failed, miserably. Behind him a dispute was breaking out. A woman was accusing Lon, the man who had sent him to the Chapel of Ilmater in search of meat, of stealing from her. Still these sorts of spats happened at least ten times a day. Dealing with them could wait.

"How is it possible… how can Coran even afford that?" he stammered weakly.

"He can't," replied Freya. "He's been using his… lockpicking gifts to redistribute resources from some of the wealthier citizens of Baldur's Gate."

"We cannot continue to accept the proceeds of theft!" said Rasaad seriously.

"Bit of a non-issue that," mumbled Freya. "Coran has just been arrested. Cost me a fucking fortune to replace everything he stole. Ha! So I guess in a way I am your donor after all. Tell me, how much was he putting in every week?"

Rasaad gave her a number and Freya turned pale. Meanwhile the dispute between Lon and the robbed woman was becoming more heated. It sounded as though she had a holy symbol of Selune, an heirloom passed down from one of their priestesses. She had spotted Lon looking at it covetously and now it was gone. He would need to wrap up this conversation soon and intervene.

"You're a Selunite too right?" Freya asked. Rasaad nodded mutely in conformation. "Then I have a theological question for you. Why is it that, despite everything I do for her, our goddess still insists on descending from the heavens on a regular basis so that she can personally fuck me in the arse with a sand-papered dildo?"

Neither the discovery that Arrow was going to war, her apparent hatred of him, nor the loss of their much-needed donor shocked Rasaad quite as much as this astonishing piece of blasphemy. He opened and shut his mouth like a guppy, and when he tried to answer a sort of low whine came out instead of words.

"I saw you staring at my pendant this morning!" the refugee behind him was yelling at Lon. "You couldn't take your eyes off it. You stole it, I know you did! Give it back!"

"I will replace Coran as sponsor of this building," sighed Freya reluctantly. "Although this is going to halve my fortune by solstice. Ah well. Good incentive to end this war quickly I suppose. Take care Rasaad."

"You too," he replied, still a little shell-shocked. "And er… thank you?"

Freya nodded and began picking her way around the refugees toward the door. Rasaad sighed, battling down the tornado of feelings that had swept him up on seeing Arrow again, and turned his attention to the battling refugees. The woman was still accusing Lon of stealing from her, while Lon was becoming increasingly agitated.

"I believe I detect some tension here?" he asked.

"None of you understand!" Lon howled. That voice… Freya stopped in her tracks and her head snapped back to look at him. "I used to live on a farm, near the woods! Life was simple and easy I could- I could hunt! Now I'm here in a city with nothing. I needed money!"

"Everyone here has lost their homes," said Rasaad sternly. "You have no right to steal from another to rebuild your own life."

Lon did not reply. He was shaking and jerking as though he were having some sort of seizure. Rasaad was approaching the man with concern but Freya barked out a warning and everybody took a step back. She had been in Lon's place often enough to recognize the signs of one of her kind about to lose control.

"I'll do what I have to, to surrrvive," Lon gasped, his mouth lengthening and distorting the words as he spoke. "You won't stop… rrrrr!"

There were screams as the refugees panicked and fled. Up the stairs, out the main doors, pressing themselves into the furthest corners of the rooms. Some of those slower to wake were finding themselves trampled underfoot. The robbed woman wailed and fled with the others leaving Rasaad and Freya to square up to Lon.

The werewolf at once made a leap in the direction of his accuser, but Rasaad tackled him bodily. This was no easy feat. Transformed, the wolf was taller than he was, and stronger. Yet it was also thrashing and clumsy, fighting like a mindless beast. The monk locked his foot around the creature's ankle and brought it crashing to the floor. The commotion from the fleeing refugees brought Captain Corwin running into the room, flanked by half-a-dozen Flaming Fist officers. They caught sight of Lon and drew their swords.

"Wait!" demanded Freya urgently. She was watching Rasaad wrestle the werewolf with a strange expression. Corwin realised that this was the Hero thinking. It looked painful. Rasaad's skill and discipline were a match for the beast's superior strength and he was gradually wearing it down. Every time it rose he managed to duck it's blows and snapping jaws while he found some opening to unbalance it. Again and again the werewolf hit the floor, leaving little tufts of brown fur poking out from between the floorboards. At this rate it would get tired before the monk did. Freya looked on with interest.

"They said a werewolf needed putting down," panted Corwin with a grin. "I thought they meant you. Pity."

Freya held her hand out for silence and the Captain begrudgingly complied. As the minutes ticked by, she watched the monk grappling with the werewolf with a thoughtful expression on her face. He had it face down on the floor, paws pulled as far behind his back as canine legs could go. The creature was whimpering in pain but he was not changing back. He was not even trying to. Lon was too far gone.

"Alright, enough. I'll handle it. Release him!" barked Freya.

Thinking that Freya, being a wolf herself, had some sort of special insight, Rasaad let Lon go. He backed up hastily as the werewolf rose onto all four paws snarling. He started toward the monk again but Freya whistled sharply to get his attention and he sprang at her instead, spit flying from his jaw.

There was a flash of metal. Freya's twin blades slashed at the approaching monster and sliced his throat so deeply that it was left hanging by his spine. Blood sprayed everywhere, splattering Freya's face and hair. The smell made her own instincts growl, but she fought them down. Lon keeled forward, still transformed, his fur turning scarlet as it soaked up the blood.

"I thought you wanted the monk to take him alive?" asked Corwin conversationally.

"No," replied Freya, as Rasaad rushed to tend to the refugee that Lon had attacked. "He gave in to the wolf and it wasn't even full moon. There was no hope for him. Better to die quickly now than to spend the rest of his life trapped in a cage."

"I'll keep that in mind," replied Corwin pleasantly. "In case _you_ ever lose your grip."

"You'd best pray that never happens. I'm bigger than Lon. Now wait outside would you?" growled Freya. "You too Viconia."

When the others had gone she went to speak, not to Rasaad, but to two of the other priests who had been watching the whole scene unfold with horrified expressions.

"Thank you," one whispered nervously. "Without you there I'm not sure we would have been able to-"

"Not important," said Freya quickly and she lowered her voice. "That man. Rasaad. I need you to persuade him to join the march North."

"Rasaad?" asked one doubtfully. He sounded as though he would much rather not lose him. "The Calishite man has been a great help to us, even though I find him preachy."

"Tough," growled Freya. "The army needs him more."

"That is really for him to decide!" the priest squeaked nervously. "If he doesn't want to come…"

Freya smiled, a wolfish smile. They watched her warily. Moments before they had seen a man in the full grip of a lycanthropy-induced surge of violence. It was well known throughout the city that Freya was infected too. Werewolf, to some people, was a more frightening word than Bhaalspawn. It was nightmarish folk tales about wolves, after all, that they had learned in the cradle. The fear was far deeper rooted than the fear of Bhaal's children.

"Here's the thing," Freya growled at the priests softly. "You have an anonymous donor whose contributions have been helping you a lot more than Rasaad. I have this nasty suspicion that if he did not join the march North those donations might mysteriously… dry up."

"I… see," said the priest carefully. "Well, that puts a rather different spin on things. We will certainly reconsider our position. I cannot _force_ him to go however."

"Say whatever you need to say," smiled Freya. "Tell him his missing friends are up there, tell him Selune came to you in a vision, tell him Viconia threatened to kill Arowan… I wouldn't be surprised if that last one were true, actually. Just get him to the camp but leave my name out of it!"

She strode from the Iron Throne, confident that she had made her point, and sent everyone but Corwin back to the Ducal Palace. The hour grew late and the sun would be setting soon. Time to see to the last member of her pack before he was forced to spend a night in the cells.

They bid her wait by the gates while they went and got him. Despite his pardon, he emerged with a large purplish-blue mark on his jaw which had not been there before. Freya folded her arms and tapped her foot, glaring at him like a disappointed drill sergeant. She had half a mind to inflict a few bruises of her own upon the idiot man. Roughly, the guard releasing him unshackled him and sent Coran on his way with a kick to the small of the back. The elf stumbled into the gutter, but got straight back to his feet and spat in the direction of the prison.

"If they decide to beat you up for that, I will let them," growled Freya, adjusting her new armour uncomfortably. She had purchased the best that the smithy had to offer but it was no substitute for her old kit. This plate was heavier, and her movement more restricted. She would not be able to sleep in it like she had with the set the Dukes had gifted her for defeating Sarevok.

"What happened to that fancy armour the Dukes gave you?" Coran frowned.

"I don't have that anymore," replied Freya, annoyance creeping back into her voice. "That, along with my rings and amulet, was Sorcerous Sundries price for not taking you to trial. They would not accept payment in gold, and I offered them a lot of gold."

Coran swallowed. He had been banking all along on Freya bailing him out if he got caught, and up until that moment he had not felt the least bit bad about it. She had taken more than her fair share of treasure during their adventures. Half for herself and half split between the rest of the party. More than that, she had pretty much ignored the refugee crisis and the adoring people who chanted her name and called her 'Hero.' Yet for all their combined flaws, she and Safana were the best friends he had ever had, and he would never want to see either of them harmed.

"I'm sorry Freya," he apologised, finally. "Stealing from Sorcerous Sundries was a step too far."

"Yeah well," sighed Freya. "I don't suppose I have to tell you that the Dukes will never let you come North with us now?"

"Oddly enough," mused Coran, massaging his bruised jaw, "I think I'm ok with that. I've seen enough of the Flaming Fist for the time being. Being surrounded by an entire army of the gits holds limited appeal to me right now."

The dazzling werewolf placed one hand gently on each of his forearms and looked deep into his emerald eyes. Coran looked up at her. She was a lot taller than he was. In the warm light of the setting sun she looked, for a moment, every inch the demigod that she was. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever bedded, but the only one he ended up rather wishing he hadn't.

"Coran, there's something I want you to know," she said gently, stroking her fingers over his auburn hair on the side where he wore it long. She picked up a lock of it and twirled it between her fingers, fluttering her eyelashes. He suppressed a smile, because Freya was a poor actress and it was obvious that she was doing a bit. He had seen Freya's best imitation of a heterosexual before, and she wasn't very convincing. "If the Hooded Man catches me and I die because I had to trade my armour for your life, I just want you to know that…"

"Yes?" he replied, stroking her hair back. He knew exactly where this was going, but he owed it to her to play along anyway. Sure enough, Freya dropped his hair and cuffed him sharply around the ear.

"…that you should totally blame yourself you bastard, and that I'm coming back to haunt you."

Coran chuckled, rubbing his sore ear. Corwin watched the pair of them, totally bewildered, as Coran pulled the werewolf in by the arm and hugged her like a brother. She clapped him on the back, rather harder than was necessary and he gave her a one-armed shake by her broad shoulder.

"See you when we're done with Caelar," laughed Freya, mussing up his hair fondly. "Try to be good."

"Stay alive, jackass," grinned Coran. He released her arm, turned and slipped away into the throng of people. Shaking her head and smiling, Freya turned back toward the Ducal Palace, followed closely by Captain Corwin.

"Well you just let yourself get well and truly shafted," remarked the officer snidely. "If I didn't know better, I'd suspect that you still had feelings for him."

"Nah," laughed Freya. "Actually, I've been avoiding him a bit in case I did because oddly enough I _was_ starting to get feelings for Corana. But, minus the girdle of femininity… nope. Nothing."

"It wouldn't matter to _me_ ," said Corwin in a slightly smug tone. "I fall for the person not the gender."

"Well, that's you," shrugged Freya, clapping the soldier on the arm with a broad grin. "Personally, I fall for the tits and arse. Life would be a lot easier if I could do love your way, but hey, the world spins on!"


	7. Respite Romance

A room to herself. It was a rare luxury, and one only afforded to Arrow because Imoen was still under the watchful eye of the palace cleric. She closed her eyes blissfully and let the warm water, this time free of Imoen's pink bubbles, lap over her. This was round two of bathing. The first tub, which the servants had hastily removed for disposal, was purely to wash the solid filth from her. This one was to get her properly clean. The maids had confiscated her clothes with scandalized expressions leaving only a towel, but at least her room had a fire.

She wiped one hand lazily on the towel and reached for her wine. Her bread had been eaten in the bath too, since she had not gone to dinner. This was primarily to avoid Viconia, though since Arrow was still reeking of the Chapel of Ilmater, nobody had tried very hard to dissuade her. The drow, who had a head for numbers, was helping Freya go over her accounts. This was putting the werewolf in a very bad mood indeed. From the sounds of things, Coran had done a real number on her. Arrow could not bring herself to feel sorry about it. The Hero of Baldur's Gate should have been helping the refugees from the outset.

Coran… Arrow was going to miss him now that he was no longer joining them on the march. The companionship, the teasing and yes, also the flirting. When they had first met, she had not fancied him in the slightest and yet his dancing green eyes and insolent smile had slowly grown on her. Helped along perhaps by his kindness to the refugees. He had not even told her what he was doing to try to charm her, even though he must have known how much she would approve of his actions.

Many times during their hunting trips in the woods, he had tilted his head, inviting her to do the same. Or leaned in only to be met with a reprimanding flick on the nose. Alone in the bath, and finding herself in the mood for company, she was starting to regret rejecting him. Belatedly, Arrow was having second thoughts about chastity until marriage. She might never get married, the odds of her dying first were pretty high. Though she had no way to be sure of her exact age, she had to be in her early twenties by now, and she had only been kissed once. Coran was hardly a candidate for the love of her life, but would a casual, experimental romance have been so very unwise after all?

_Tap, tap._

Arrow glanced nervously at the heavy drawn curtains at her window, but it seemed unlikely that more assassins would announce themselves by knocking. A bird must have landed on the windowsill. She returned to musing over Coran, wondering how angry Safana would be with her, given that the two of them were no longer a couple. Perhaps if they were both unattached when she returned to the city, and he promised to be discrete… after all he had alluded to many lovers in passing but only mentioned a very few by name.

_Tap, tap, tap!_

Arrow stood up abruptly, sending a wave of bathwater crashing onto the carpet. She flinched guiltily but at least the housekeeping staff would be rid of her and Freya soon. They might get to replace the Duke's soiled red velvet stairs, tragic victims of her sister's vast boots. She picked up her bow and as an afterthought wrapped herself in the towel. There was definitely someone there, and she suspected she knew who, but archery required both hands. She could not have both the weapon and her modesty. She was going to have to pick one.

_Tap, t-t-tap, tap. Tap! Tap!_

Followed by a very soft whistle. Arrow recognized that whistle from the woods. She was almost certain that it was Coran now. She'd have to open the window before the idiot rogue got himself caught. Choosing the towel and dropping the bow, she unlatched the window and bundled the visitor into her room, pulling off his mask sharply as she did so.

"Evening," he grinned casually, eyes glittering. "I came to bid my lady farewell."

"Coran? What happened to your face?" Arrow gasped.

"I have been enjoying the famed hospitality of the Flaming Fist," he smiled, gesturing to the bruises. Arrow closed the window hastily, smiling and waving at one of the guards on the balcony below as she did so. He waved back and returned to his watch. It appeared that Coran had got away with sneaking in, so far. The ranger had no healing potions left herself, but she flung open Imoen's chest and rummaged around one-handed until she found one. Her other hand was still holding up her towel. It was clinging to her wet skin and she felt the man's appreciative eyes on her back. Though she already had the potion in her hand she leaned further in to the chest, stretching out her toned leg behind her. When she straightened up the elf was grinning at her.

"Drink it," she demanded. Coran shook his head, muttering something about her needing it more where she was going, but Arrow insisted. He necked the potion while she watched him furiously, holding up her towel with both hands.

"Are you out of your mind?" she whispered. She ought to be angry. Instead her eyes were drawn to his arms. They were not huge but they were strong, and she would bet a large sum of gold that she would feel very secure wrapped in arms like that. "You narrowly escape the noose for theft, and the very same day you break into the Ducal Palace! What is the matter with you? Do you have a death wish?"

"Ah yes, the stealing. In my defence I badly needed those healing scrolls," said Coran with a self-deprecating smile. "A man who gets around as much as I do exposes himself to a range of ailments."

"Gross! You're not carrying any of those diseases now are you?" asked Arrow suspiciously, backing up a step. Coran grinned.

"Such afflictions are of no concern to my fair Ilmatari, surely?" he laughed. Arrow flushed, very aware that she had nothing to wear but the towel. Coran had seen her getting changed many times before. Perhaps she had allowed him to see a little more than was strictly necessary, but this was different. "And no, I am in perfect health, the scrolls have done their work. But thank you for your concern."

Arrow gave him a scathing look.

"I know why you really stole those scrolls," she told him. "Freya has done nothing but complain about it since she got back to the palace. Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's just that…" For a moment Coran looked a little bit awkward, which was rare for him. He ran a hand through his auburn hair and fixed his green eyes on his feet. "I thought it might make you like me more and using the refugees for that would have been… low. I mean, low even for me."

"I don't think you're low. But you're right," Arrow said quietly. "It does make me like you more."

"Besides I was never as close to the executioner's rope as you think," he grinned. "I knew Freya would do the right thing for the refugees eventually. If I gave her a little shove in the right direction. She's a good person really… well, ok, maybe not… but an adequate person anyway. It just doesn't always occur to her to think outside of her own pack."

"I expect she will need a lot of moral shoving in the next few weeks," sighed Arrow. "I wish you were coming with us."

"Ah, so you will miss me then?" he teased, eyes gleaming. "Enough to leave me a kiss to remember you by?"

It was a throwaway comment. He had no serious expectation that the ranger would do anything of the sort. It came as a pleasant shock to find Arrow's mouth suddenly pressed warmly to his own. Nor was her kiss the timid, chaste peck he had been angling for. He responded passionately as his brain caught up with what his body was feeling. His hands slipped around her back and pulled her closer to him, and she responded enthusiastically, though her one hand was still holding up that towel.

As their kiss became more heated Coran circled his hand over her shoulders, tracing lower until it hovered teasingly over her lower back. Arrow had still not fully decided what she wanted this to be yet, but so far it felt incredible. She stood on tiptoe on the pretext of kissing him deeper, accidentally-on-purpose shifting her bum under his hand. Her invitation to touch was readily accepted and the elf pulled her hips closer to his own.

At length, he pulled back, breathing a little more heavily as excitement and adrenaline coursed through him. This was why he could never settle! He could never give this feeling up _._ Even so, he paused to give the woman a moment to think about what she was doing, and to check that she was not drunk. There was a wine glass by the side of the bath but it was near full. The Ilmatari was coherent, coordinated and definitely not drunk, just in a very frisky mood. His hips ground into her thigh a little, hopefully. She could feel him through his clothes and the towel, and she melted into his arms, her body alight with curiosity.

Was it ok to do this? Arrow knew that she did not love him, at least not in a romantic way, but she liked him a great deal. She nuzzled her forehead under his chin and he responded by stroking her hair slowly and gently. He would go soon and leave her to a cold empty bed. In the morning he had to stay in the city while she would be marched North against her will to war and an unknown fate. She would be lying if she said she was not scared of this, and of the Hooded Man and of Freya's new alliance with Viconia. Yet this, being right here with the elf, felt safe and comfortable and she wanted more.

"Coran?" she ventured. She knew what she wanted to ask, but she wasn't quite sure how to phrase it. The city taverns were full of people booking rooms together, but how did one go about suggesting something like this? Without looking up at him, she murmured into his chest, "Do you have anywhere to go tonight?"

"Well, I have no gold and I fear I have outstayed my welcome as the Dukes' house guest," replied Coran. "But I have wit and charm, so I'm sure that I can work something out. Unless…"

He trailed off and there was a long pause. He hadn't moved away, and her skin was tingling where his hands rested lightly on her arms. She tilted her head and he kissed her again, hungrier this time, his breath and pulse quickening. His tongue flickered over her lips and she parted them curiously, letting his tongue explore her mouth and very tentatively meeting it with her own.

Coran slipped a hand around her back to pull her closer and the towel dropped slightly. She let it go and raised her hand to touch his hair. Only the press of his body against her own was holding it up now.

"Arrow are you sure about this?" he murmured. "I know your views on sex outside of marriage."

This forward-thinking was unusual for Coran, whose modus operandi was normally to act first and worry about whether it was a good idea later. Yet recent experience had altered his perspective slightly. Earlier that year he had become temporarily trapped in a woman's body, and unwisely seized the opportunity of sleeping with Freya. It had introduced him, for the first time, to the strange concept of regretting having sex. It was an unpleasant, used feeling and not one which he would wish to inflict upon Arowan.

"It isn't banned by the Ilmatari," said Arrow. "It's just discouraged because it can cause suffering. Unwanted children, hearts getting broken, people getting hurt. That sort of thing. Only, I have a potion and… I don't think there's any danger of anybody getting hurt here, is there?"

Coran shook his head mutely. Probably not, and even if there was, then the only one at risk was himself. She was so lovely that right now he felt as though he could give up all other women and stay with her forever. Yet he had felt like this dozens of times before, and he knew from experience that it never lasted. Love was as transient and beautiful as a spring flower. Try to preserve it past its natural season and all you would end up with was a withered stalk. Forever was not what Arrow wanted from him though. She wanted now, and _that_ he could provide.

As she fumbled in her bag for the contraceptive potion that Jaheira had provided her with months ago, Coran pushed the two beds together. He was careful not to make too much noise that might attract the attention of the palace staff. Her fingers paused over the stopper as high, elated feelings coursed through her. Did she really want to do this?

She looked over at Coran, who had taken his shirt off and her pulse quickened with excitement. He offered safe, harmless fun. A chance to experiment with this, without painful, complicated feelings getting in the way. Yes, she definitely wanted to do this. A lot. Maybe there were some people who would think less of her for it, but that was only her problem if she let it be.

The elf sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on Arrow as she crossed the room to him holding the potion and her towel. She sat down beside him, heart thumping, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. Arrow held out the bottle and he broke the seal on it with his free hand.

"It's three drops but," she looked slightly embarrassed, "I don't know whether I'm supposed to take it, or you are?" Coran smiled.

"Why don't we both take it?" he suggested reassuringly. He waited and she raised the bottle to his lips, tipping the requisite three drops over his tongue. Then he took the bottle from her and lifted it to her mouth. The drops tasted of honey wine and as soon as she swallowed, the elf placed it hastily on the bedside table and turned back to her eagerly.

They perched on the edge of the bed together, kissing and stroking their hands over each other in an exploratory way. Arrow was discovering things she hadn't known she liked, having her neck kissed and collar nibbled. Her own attempts to reciprocate felt clumsy by comparison, but the elf seemed so lost in what he was doing that she could not feel too shy about it. He loosed her towel and it fell around her hips. The ranger, who was rather fed up with the dry, scratchy thing anyway, shuffled back further onto the bed, letting it fall to the floor.

She watched Coran staring at her, his emerald eyes drinking in the curves of her body. Arrow, who was normally rather insecure about her appearance, wondered why she did not feel such nerves with him. Coran was a man who had seen hundreds of naked women, even Freya, who was widely held to be the most stunning creature Faerun had produced in generations. Then she realised that it was _because_ he had seen it all that she did not feel self-conscious. If her breasts were small, and her thighs too thick and her tummy had a little roll and all the other things that she had worried about one day having to let someone else see, it didn't matter. Because somewhere, with someone, Coran would have seen it before.

Not that familiarity seemed to have dulled his enthusiasm. He kicked off his boots, undid his belt and started untying the string holding up his breeches. Arrow bit her lip, and moved his hands away gently so that she could do it for him. She fumbled with the cords as he tossed his head back, smiling and enjoying the moment. His auburn hair was so shiny in the fading light, it framed his pretty elfin face. Arrow stroked his topless chest, past the paunch around the middle and over his collar bone to his muscular archer's arms. She badly wanted to be pinned in those arms, and sped up undressing him.

Yet as she pulled his breeches down the material and her fingers brushed over his shaft. He drew a sudden sharp intake of breath and clenched his teeth. The ranger withdrew her hand in alarm.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked in a worried voice.

"No!" he exclaimed, panting. Arrow was still gazing at him with deep anxiety. Her concern for him was so sweet that he couldn't help laughing at her. She flushed, looking both embarrassed and a bit cross. He stroked her short, dark hair behind her ears and brushed his lips over hers lightly. "Lie back on the pillow, my love, and I will show you how it feels."

Arrow settled back, propped up naked on the pillows and suddenly feeling very exposed. Coran kicked off his breeches and lay alongside her, pressing his lips over her neck and stroking her side until the ranger relaxed and melted into his caress. He stroked her ear with his finger, smiled at her reassuringly and then dived lower kissing her belly and inner thighs. The unfamiliar, intimate touching felt like jolts of electricity passing through her, pleasurable and unbearable at the same time.

When his tongue found her clit she let out a soft little noise somewhere between an 'oh' and a squeak. Coran kissed, stroked and flickered his tongue against her. As he did so, he seemed to be experimenting, circling here, brushing his tongue back and forth there. Faster, slower, more or less pressure. He let himself be guided by the quiet little noises she made, until in the end they were not so quiet anymore and she had to bury her face into the pillow for fear of them getting caught.

At one point, her legs started trembling, which temporarily distracted him. He broke off what he was doing to kiss and stroke them, mumbling something past coherence about how pretty she was. Gradually the elf seemed to come to his senses and returned to pleasing her. Arrow arched her back, sighing with pleasure under his mouth.

After she had been enjoying herself for a while, Arrow began to worry. Surely she was taking too long to come, and she feared that he might be growing bored. She sat up a little and he raised his head, green eyes hazy with lust. Being looked at like that was an undeniable turn on, and she snaked her leg around his back to pull him closer to her.

"You taste wonderful," he whispered before resuming his task. This statement sounded so bizarre to Arrow that she spluttered with nervous laughter. He raised his head grinning. "What?"

"How… how does it taste?" she asked curiously.

"You've never been tempted to find that out on your own?" he asked surprised, moving himself up her body but continuing to trace her entrance with his hand.

"No. That honestly never occurred to me," she laughed quietly. Then she gasped a little as his fingertips changed direction unexpectedly. "Have _you?"_

"Only once. Salty. Not to my taste at all, whereas you Arowan…" he leaned forward and gave her a long open-mouthed kiss, "Taste like this."

As he kissed her he moved his fingers in swift circles over her clit. It was completely different from doing it herself. She could not predict when the jolts of pleasure would come and it was becoming difficult to stay quiet. Coran grinned wickedly at this and ducked his head to nibble her neck. Arrow closed her eyes and threw back her head, unable to think of anything except the growing feeling between her legs.

Coran trailed butterfly kisses over her shoulder blades and chest. If the ranger were still capable of noticing at this point, she might have been impressed by the co-ordination required to do this, work her clit and caress her side and hip with his free hand at the same time. As it was all she could do was moan and try to do so as softly as possible so as not to attract the attention of the palace guards. The thief sped up, grazing her breast with his teeth and feeling her muscles start to contract under him.

The ranger made a very quiet, but shrill little noise, pushing her hips into his hand. She would not last long now, he knew. Her short brown hair was strewn over the pillow, her eyes were screwed up and lips slightly parted. The elf smiled. There was nothing lovelier than a woman's face at this moment and he watched Arrow's as her legs shivered under him. Her hips gave one last involuntary little buck. She let out a long sigh and lay still, flushed and satisfied.

Coran gently removed his hand and lay alongside her, stroking her arms tenderly. One never knew with a new lover how they would respond after coming. He had known some women to ride the surge of energy that came with it and jump him, others to become drowsy and doze off. Arrow did neither. After taking a moment to recover herself she began planting sleepy kisses along the length of his neck.

"You don't have to…" he began. Coran had grown quite attached to Arrow in the few months that they had spent together. He wanted her memories of this night to be happy ones. If she was tired then he would be content to watch her sleep. She caught his lips in hers before he could finish the sentence and straddled him. The elf thrust instinctively, brushing against her but aching to be inside.

"I want you," she whispered. Coran's breath quickened and his heart began to thump.

"I want you too, so badly," he murmured gently. Her hand curled around him, guiding him in, and he felt like he was losing his mind. " _Arowan!_ "

Morning came and Arrow awoke feeling strangely comfortable and calm. She snuggled back into the arms holding her and sighed happily. Then she woke up properly and her eyes shot open. Was that an incredibly intense dream or had they just…?

Her brown eyes lighted on unfamiliar boots and followed the trail of clothes leading to the bed. She risked a glance over her shoulder and sure enough, there was Coran, curled up around her and snoring lightly. She turned back over and stared at her abandoned towel.

"Ok…" she whispered to herself.

She had no regrets about the night before, but she had not stopped to consider what was supposed to happen next. Shafts of daylight were breaking through the curtain and striking the floor. She could hear people moving around outside. Panic gripped her. If a servant were to come in and find that Coran had snuck into the Ducal Palace, he would probably be killed by the Flaming Fist. Worse, there was a very real chance that she would be killed by Safana.

"Wake up!" she whispered frantically, turning over and shaking Coran by the shoulder. The elf's green eyes flickered open dopily and he pulled her back down into his arms. His body felt so warm and comforting that she could easily go back to sleep like this… No! "Coran please, you have to get out of here! This is the day we go to fight the crusade. Any minute now this room is going to be swarming with people. Wake up damn you!"

Coran yawned, and sat up slowly, stroking her hair and burying his face into her neck. It felt so nice that she let him carry on for far longer than was sensible, only pushing him away when she heard the distant bang of Freya's door being flung open.

"How did I know you would be hungover?" Captain Corwin's bellowing voice echoed down the hall. "And who the hell is… Officer Brielle? Your division were supposed to be in the town square an hour ago. Get your uniform back on, soldier, and be grateful we need every sword in the city or I'd have you flogged!"

"She'll be coming here next, get up!" said Arrow, desperately trying to haul the elf out of her bed.

"Mmm, you're so warm, my love," he murmured. "I want to bury myself in you."

Arrow, who had enjoyed the night before a great deal, was secretly rather pleased with this statement. Though, conversely, she felt it for the best that circumstances denied them the opportunity. It would be easy to get attached to the man, which would spoil everything in the end.

"If you don't get out of here before the staff come to get me up, the only thing you'll wind up buried in is the ground!" whispered Arrow. "C'mon, get up Coran! Move!"

The thief got up slowly and reluctantly, replacing bits of clothing in between kissing and caressing her. It felt so good, and she was sorely tempted to bar the door and have him a second time. She suspected that the mad romantic would risk it too, but she would not. Arrow wrapped the still-damp towel from the night before around herself, as Coran looked on regretfully.

When he was fully dressed she shooed him to the window, being rather harsh in her haste. She opened it to the cold night air and peeked out nervously. One of the guards raised his helmet to her good humouredly and she drew her head back like a startled tortoise. Still, the guards always patrolled the balconies. If Coran got himself in, he could get himself out, she reasoned. She turned back to find him standing close to her.

"I would not have us part so soon," he murmured, running his fingers through her hair. Arrow gave him a reprimanding tap on the nose with her finger.

"And I would not have your head part company from your body," she replied affectionately. "But I fear it is a fate that not even Freya can save you from if Silvershield's men find you here. Now go!"

Coran gave her fingers a last, lingering squeeze and slipped out onto the balcony. Arrow listened anxiously for a while but there was a reassuring silence. No yells or metallic rustles of weapons being drawn. The chilly breeze was raising goosebumps on her naked skin. She closed her window quickly, then opened the door to her bedroom and scooped up her clothes which had been washed and placed outside.

Tugging them on, she looked at the messy bed, not quite able to believe what the pair of them had just done. Not that, aside from very slight soreness, she felt at all bad about it. In fact, it was with a distinct spring in her step that she descended the stairs to join the others for breakfast. She felt confident, sexy and attractive, all of which were a novelty for Arrow. Suddenly the world seemed full of exciting possibilities.

Her good mood did not go unnoticed by the rest of the party.

"Boo observes that our ranger is in fine spirits this morning, and we all know why!" announced Minsc, joyfully.

"You do?" asked Arrow, momentarily alarmed.

"Indeed. For today is the day that Minsc and Boo and Arrow and Dynaheir begin our grand adventure. We will kick the evil assassin-sending buttocks of this Caelar who tried to hurt our Imoen, and perhaps some evil bottoms closer to home too," he added with a sideways look at Viconia. "Let us hurry and take our places in the procession so that the crowds of people may see their Heroes sent forth to protect them!"

"C- crowds?" echoed Arrow, turning pale and stammering almost as badly as her adopted father. "There are crowds?"

"The whole of Baldur's Gate has turned out to wish us good fortune!" cried Minsc ecstatically. "Already they know my face and that of the Hero Freya. Soon they shall know the Hero Arowan too! Ah… this is going to be a good day!"

"Yeah!" squeaked Arrow, casting a petrified look at the door. "The best!"


	8. The Bitch of Baldur's Gate

If they must go to war, at least they had picked a nice day for it. Dazzling sunlight beamed down on the procession, roasting the soldiers in their shiny armour and glinting off their weapons. They cut an impressive sight from a distance. Close up, there wasn't a single face that wasn't dripping with sweat. The crowds gathering to see them off were in fine spirits, waving flags, cheering and waiting eagerly for the spectacle to begin. Rasaad had needed to climb quite high into the gutters in order to see anything.

The main doors to the Ducal Palace swung open to let out a small crowd of adventurers. Rasaad recognized Captain Corwin, Viconia and Minsc. He had only spoken to the hamster-packing berserker once. It had been long ago, at a carnival in Nashkel, but meeting Minsc was a memorable experience for anyone. Rasaad had gone to that carnival with Arrow, it had been a date of sorts. She had looked so pretty with the multicoloured fairground lights reflecting in her eyes. The young monk smiled at the memory. Things had been so much simpler back then, when they were just friends.

Rasaad turned his thoughts back to the assembled party. Minsc had his witch with him, Dynaheir. She was looking around at the people with a bored, imperious expression. The monk knew little about her, but if she was anything like her berserker companion then she was probably harmless enough. The group were talking to one another, though distance and the rumble of the crowds prevented Rasaad from hearing their words.

"Ah!" Minsc smiled broadly, stretching out his great arms in the morning sun. "A perfect day to boot evil booty. A shame that our good friends Coran and Safana are not with us. Ah, and little Imoen too."

"'Little' Imoen must hone her magics lest she endanger us all," Dynaheir reminded him sharply. "She is fortunate indeed to have a mentor like Duke Jannath. Safana is, I fear, unsuited for war and as for Coran… I may disfavour the Duke's decision to leave him behind, yet I perceive the wisdom in it." She rolled her eyes fondly. The hedonistic elf had helped Freya to release her from a stronghold of gnolls, but he was a pure tomcat of a man. Not at all suited for the strict routines and rigorous discipline of army life. Minsc was suddenly looking a little downcast. Dynaheir sighed and said in a maternal sort of way, "Do not fret, thou shalt adventure with thine friends again another day."

"And of course, _every day_ is a good day to boot evil booty," conceded Minsc. He was not a difficult person to perk up. "But where is Freya?"

"The crazy bitch is in the Duke's dining room. Talking to a painting," snapped Corwin. Not only that, but she'd had the nerve to ask for privacy to do it. Out of curiosity, Corwin had asked Duke Silvershield whether the portrait of his ancestor Maire was enchanted in some way. It was not unheard of for paintings with mystic charms to answer back when spoken to. Yet so far as the Duke was aware, this painting possessed no magical properties. Freya was talking to nothing more than paint and canvass. Corwin added in an angry mutter; "Mad dog."

"Thou dost not call her such names to her face. I can tell because thou still hast all of thine teeth," muttered Dynaheir, who still had very mixed feelings about Freya. Since the werewolf had accepted her would-be assassin, Viconia, into her party their interactions had been tense. Perhaps Freya saving her from being eaten by gnolls balanced out her alliance with Viconia. Even so, the drow had helped Edwin to try to murder her, so she and Minsc would not be re-joining the werewolf until the dark elf was gone.

"Well, tell Freya to come on out so she can see all of these lovely people!" cried Minsc loudly. The crowd near enough to hear him cheered their approval at his suggestion. He was not as famous as Freya but Minsc, like Coran, was well known in Baldur's Gate for his role in Sarevok's downfall. Moreover, unlike the werewolf, their popularity was not tainted by being Bhaalspawn or growing fur and fangs on a monthly basis. Minsc could have publicly announced that he ate his own toes for breakfast and still received applause. "Come on Freya! Everyone knows, the early bird catches the evil worm!"

It was just as well, Dynaheir reflected, that only Viconia and not Edwin himself had tried to join their expedition. Were he here, she doubted that even she would be able to contain the berserker's fury. It had been three months since Edwin and Viconia's attempt on her life, but not a single evening had passed without Minsc making some sort of threat against the Thayan's posterior.

As the doors to the Ducal Palace finally swung open, a roar rose up from the crowd. It faded to a disappointed grumbling when the people who emerged were not Freya but Duke Silvershield, accompanied by some peasant girl in an ill-fitting tunic. She was staring around at the people like a frightened rabbit, milk white under her freckles and wide brown eyes darting this way and that. Rasaad's stomach gave a painful jolt. Arrow looked utterly petrified. His inner voice told him that he ought to be standing beside her, supporting her and protecting her from what lay ahead.

The last time Arrow had stood in front of a crowd this size it had ended disastrously. Her brother and fellow Bhaalspawn, Eric, had been on trial. He was guilty of terrible crimes which she and Freya had witnessed in their shared dreams. Only, he had committed those crimes under the combined influence of Irenicus and addiction to numbing potions.

Numbing potions! Rasaad cursed those chilly little grey bottles with every fibre of his being. His own brother, Gamaz, had also fallen prey to their influence. Stripped of all feeling and empathy, numbing potion addicts would blindly chase the last thing that was important to them. No matter how misguided or petty the goal might be. They were like arrows shot into space, with nothing to change their direction or slow them down. In Eric's case this had meant staying alive at all costs. In Gamaz's becoming more powerful than his brother. Both had failed, with Gamaz slain at Rasaad's own hand and Eric, ironically, dying of withdrawal from the potions themselves.

Rasaad had only discovered Gamaz's addiction during Eric's trial, but Arrow had known all along. She had discovered the potions on Gamaz's body and hidden the truth from him. If she hadn't, then perhaps Gamaz could have been resurrected and restored. Thinking about this brought up a surge of fury. The Selunite swung sharply from wishing he could be with her, to wanting to wring her neck. He watched his frightened former-flame shivering under the eyes of the crowd, his heart torn between love and hate.

Their romance had died on that scaffold, along with the unfortunate Eric. No wonder Arowan's phobia of crowds was getting worse. Rasaad thought back to their only, clumsy kiss and cringed with shame. He was neither the lover that his body wanted him to be, nor had he followed the path of dedicated monkhood that his mind had chosen. His behaviour toward her had represented the worst of both worlds and worse, he had made her deeply unhappy in the process.

Suddenly he saw something that made him jump in alarm and he nearly launched himself forward into the street. A dark object went hurtling toward Arrow. Yet as it landed, he saw that it was nothing and his pulse slowed. Somebody in the mob had thrown a shoe at Silvershield. It missed him and clipped Arrow harmlessly on the arm. It was only a light blow, but the ranger began to shake. It was visible even from this distance. All thoughts of Gamaz melted away, and all he wanted to do was hold her.

"It will be alright," the monk whispered, as though somehow his comfort could reach her. Two guards started muscling their way through the crowds in search of the shoe thrower, but a word from the Duke recalled them and they returned to their posts. Poor Arrow looked as though she might burst into tears or be sick at any moment.

"She looks small, doesn't she?" observed a cold voice in Rasaad's ear. "And so very vulnerable."

The monk froze, though he knew at once who had spoken. Irenicus had used this same paralyzing spell the last time he had visited him. On that occasion the wizard had threatened Arrow but offered to leave her alone if Rasaad delivered Freya to him instead. He had no idea what he wanted this time. To punish him for not co-operating perhaps.

"Leave her alone!" he managed, with difficulty because his jaw was locked along with his arms and legs.

"Or you'll do what?" demanded Irenicus, gliding up beside Rasaad and peering over the guttering at the people milling below. "You are in no position to make threats. My offer still stands. I would much prefer to use Freya for my purposes. Isolate her from this rabble for me and your precious Arowan will be unharmed."

"Why me and not one of her friends?" asked Rasaad. "I barely know Freya, she wouldn't go anywhere with me."

"What makes you think I didn't try her friends?" enquired Irenicus. He extended a pale finger. Small bolts were drilled into his hand around the joints, as if to prevent them from coming loose. He pointed at Minsc and Dynaheir. "Those two are too simple minded to give me their friend, even after she betrayed them by siding with their attacker." His mutilated finger shifted left a fraction to indicate Viconia. "The cleric has potential, but I dislike dealing with drow unless it is absolutely necessary. Coran refused to help and has thus far proven too slippery to capture. I believe he must have started taking steps to evade me as soon as he learnt of my existence."

To his shame, despite the seriousness of the situation, Rasaad felt his jealousy resurfacing. Not only was Arrow's new lover more effective at helping the refugees than he was, he was also smarter. Coran's response when Freya had relayed her visions of Eric and the Hooded Man, had been to prepare. Unlike him, the elf had the wit to see that the threat was real. All Rasaad had done when Arrow woke up screaming from the same dream was to cuddle her and tell her that it would be alright. She had trusted him and drifted off to sleep against his chest in that cold cave halfway up the Cloud Peak mountains. Only he had been wrong. Gamaz had awaited them at the top of those mountains and nothing from that point on had been alright.

"Now Imoen…" Irenicus went on, as Rasaad stood frozen, impotent and feeling a fool. "Imoen is an interesting specimen but she will never betray Freya or Arrow. I begin to doubt that she is even capable of it. The silly child actually tried to kill _me_ for my small part in Eric's death."

Rasaad felt cold sick pooling in his gut. It sounded as though Irenicus was starting to uncover the truth about Imoen. During their travels through the sword coast the previous year, Arrow's party had stumbled into the Candlekeep catacombs and discovered the real Imoen's grave. Her father Gorion, driven mad by grief, had sought to restore his dead toddler where the clerics could not. He and the other Harpers had interrupted a ritual sacrifice of Bhaal's children, but instead of slaying them or having them fostered, he kept them for himself. He had gathered at least a dozen children and taken them back to Candlekeep with him. Of course nobody, not the Candlekeep monks, his fellow Harpers, nor the Cult of Bhaal itself would ever have permitted this. So Gorion had cast a series of cunning little spells to make almost everybody, including the Bhaalspawn themselves, believe that they were all one person.

Then Gorion had done something terrible. Something that in Rasaad's opinion should see him condemned to one of the nine hells. The magician had carefully shaved a fragment from each of the Bhaalspawn's souls. Just like a coin-clipper slicing tiny slivers from many gold pieces then melting them down to cast a new one. He merged the little bits of soul from the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn into a whole new one and used it to revive Imoen.

Only (and Rasaad ached with pity for Imoen when he thought of this) the chimera he created was not really his daughter. It was a whole new soul, an entirely different person, living in his daughter's body. Gorion had soon realised his mistake, but it was Imoen who ended up being punished for it. For years Gorion had ignored and neglected her. He even went to the cruel extreme of throwing his 'ward' an extravagant party every year, while pointedly excluding Imoen. Worse, he had placed a painful geas on Imoen which until recently had forced her to keep the existence of the multiple wards a secret. Surely his friend had suffered enough without this vile Irenicus stalking her? Still, she and Arrow had the Hero of Baldur's Gate to protect them, and that was no small thing.

Inside the Ducal Palace, the Hero was indeed talking to a portrait just like Corwin said. Or, more accurately, talking to herself in front of the portrait. It was an image of Maire Silvershield, a long dead ancestor of Skie and the current Duke. Freya had never met the doe-eyed bard, but she and certain minority groups in the city owed the woman a great debt. During her lifetime few people knew that Maire maintained her female body by means of an enchanted girdle. The Grand Duchess and her husband had feared that their marriage would be declared invalid if this fact became known. It only came to light after her death, when her mortician removed the device while preparing her for burial. By this time Maire's children and grandchildren had married into every noble family in Baldur's Gate.

" _Which means that if your marriage wasn't valid then every last noble in this city is a bastard,"_ mused Freya with a half-smile. _"And disinherited."_

Naturally the nobility of the city, being rather attached to their money and titles, had rapidly enacted strict laws clarifying the issue. In the South, especially Amn, same-sex romance was discouraged at best and violently repressed at worst. In Baldur's Gate, courtesy of Maire, it was the other way around. Anyone questioning the legitimacy of such relationships was a direct threat to the city's aristocracy. As such they tended to be dealt with… harshly. Freya had no objection to this repression whatsoever. They'd do the same to her in a heartbeat.

"Well, I'm off to defend your city," she told the noblewoman's image. She raided the Duke's drinks cabinet, which had been sadly depleted over the course of Freya's stay in the Ducal Palace, and pulled out a bottle of vintage red. She uncorked the decades-matured wine and, without so much as allowing it to breathe, poured one for herself and one for the Duchess. The Hero of Baldur's Gate sat down on the edge of the Duke's long oak dining table and raised a goblet to her own hero. "Here's to a victory for Baldur's Gate. Fair to middling chance I'm going to die this time." The werewolf paused and let out a sigh. "If I don't come back, watch over Skie for me."

"Watch over me yourself, I'm coming with you!" said Skie. Freya jumped, spilling some of the wine over Duke Silvershield's poor, abused Evereskan wool rug. She turned to see Skie standing in the doorway with her arms wide, wearing the uniform of the Flaming Fist. "Ta-daa!" she trilled, twirling around. "So, what do you think?"

"I… um…" stammered Freya. The truth was she had very mixed feelings about this. On the one hand they were going to war and Skie might get hurt. On the other hand it eliminated any risk of Eldoth worming his way back into her life in their absence. As well as this Freya had a bit of a thing for Flaming Fist uniforms and a _lot_ of a thing for Skie. The two combined were making her blush. "You look great?" the werewolf hazarded.

"I know!" cried Skie, who was adorably smug. Freya took a large gulp of wine to steady herself. It was strong stuff and burned pleasantly on the way down, though she didn't like the flavour much. "Isn't it great? Daddy is going to be furious!" She said this last part as though angering her father were the greatest ambition that she could ever hope to achieve. "He'll be mad at you too about the wine, he was saving that for when I get married."

"Oh bugger. Sorry," said Freya. "If it makes you feel any better it tastes horrible. Serve a keg of Nashkel Taverns instead, your guests will thank you for it." Skie giggled. "Well since it's your wedding wine you should at least taste it. You can drink Maire's for her, seeing as you're her great-great-great-granddaughter or something."

Skie sat down close to Freya, picked up the wine glass in one hand and wrapped her free arm around the werewolf's waist. Freya smiled up at the painting in a melancholy way. She was no genius, by any stretch of the imagination, but even she could tell that Skie was playing with her. Just like all her recent lovers. Noblewomen and Flaming Fist officers seeking a story to arouse their male lovers with… or bragging rights at having bedded the Hero of Baldur's Gate. Not that she was complaining exactly, it was certainly better than nothing. Coran (who considered Freya to be a sort of protegee) thought she had sparkling good fortune. Women were practically queuing up at her bedroom door and none of them seemed to want to burden her with a relationship afterwards.

" _But I'm not Coran,"_ Freya thought dispiritedly. She drained her glass and set it down with a clink. Skie left her wastefully half full glass and bottle displayed prominently on the table, where the Duke could not possibly miss them. As an after thought she nudged her drink with her elbow so that the wine splashed all over her father's expensive rug.

"Oops!" Skie said, unconvincingly. "We'd best get going. I'm going to be at the back of the parade with the _regular soldiers!_ I was at the barracks with them yesterday, you won't believe the things they say when they think there are no nobles around. They can't stand Daddy."

"They can't?" asked Freya sharply. "What were they saying? What were their names?"

"Oh, no, it was nothing that bad," Skie backtracked hastily. "I don't want to get them into any trouble!"

"Trouble for your father is trouble for you," Freya said seriously. "If any of them made threats-"

"No, they were just grumbling about pay," Skie replied. Freya nodded and relaxed. The Flaming Fist were always grumbling about pay. Mainly because Silvershield kept postponing paying them. Skie leaned over and kissed Freya on the cheek, very close to the edge of her mouth. "See you later, Hero."

She bounded away and, with a last respectful nod to Maire, Freya followed. On the way, she swiped a napkin from the table. It was hand embroidered with the Silvershield family coat of arms. She bounded down the stairs, tearing off two small pieces as she went and stuffing them into her ears. Then she opened the doors and stepped out into a roaring tsunami of cheering.

"There she is! It's her! It's Freya!"

"Thank you so much! Good fortune smile on you!"

"I love you Freya!"

And then it rained. Not shoes, like the one thrown at Skie's father moments before, but roses and tulips and even dandelions from the poorer residents. Something soft landed on Freya's face obscuring her vision. She lifted it and let out a great bark of laughter. It was a garter. The two guards who had gone after the shoe-thrower earlier had their hands on the hilts of their swords again, but Freya kissed the garter good-humouredly and tossed it back in the general direction that it came from. A small scrap broke out as her fans squabbled over it.

Freya grinned broadly at her adoring people. At six-foot-three she towered above most of them and even those stuck at the back could see the sunlight beaming from her hair. With her impressive height, broad-shoulders and devilishly handsome face she cut an imposing figure. A vein was pulsing in the Duke's forehead and Captain Corwin rolled her eyes, but the screaming people were showing no signs of calming. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a sight of Minsc who was revelling in this, holding Boo up high in his palm so that the hamster got his share of attention. It was not exactly modest behaviour but he loved the crowd and the crowd loved them too. Freya smiled. Ah, what the hell?

The Hero of Baldur's Gate reached behind her and drew the two bastard swords she wore strapped to her back. She thrust them high above her head as her public screeched themselves hoarse and clapped their hands bloody. She turned this way and that, smiling and winking at people, letting them vent their hysterical adoration for a minute more before sheathing the swords. This was her signal to clam up, and the crowd took the hint. The napkin earplugs had not helped, both of her ears were ringing like crazy, but there was no denying that it felt nice to be loved.

"You're the Hero of Baldur's Gate!" someone squeaked. Freya looked to her left, and to her right then right behind her for the source of the voice. "Down here!"

Freya looked down into empty air. Then she looked further. A tiny child with gaps where her front fangs ought to be was smiling up at her. It was a good thing that she had spoken, or the werewolf might have stepped on her by mistake. She looked questioningly to the nearest guard wondering how this tiny human and the glaring old bloke beside her had slipped through the cordon and into the parade. Yet her entourage seemed unperturbed by their presence.

"Oh, what a sweet puppy!" said Freya reflexively, bending down to scratch behind the child's ears. The girl laughed but her grandfather's fist tightened at this peculiar behaviour. Freya, however, had spent her whole adult life thus far alternating between dangerous adventuring and taverns of questionable reputation. Her sole experience of children was with other werewolves. She looked around her, frowning. "Where's your Mum and your littermates?"

"I'm her Mum!" snapped a harsh voice behind her. Freya screwed her eyes shut and exhaled. Of all the appalling bad luck. She straightened up and attempted to back away, but Captain Corwin was not about to let her off the hook so easily. In seconds the officer placed herself between Freya and the little girl, her face inches from the Hero's own. "Rohma isn't a 'puppy,' she hasn't got any 'littermates' and if I see your paw anywhere near her again, I will cut it off!"

"Fine…" growled Freya, between gritted teeth. She turned her back on Corwin and ambled over to Minsc and Dynaheir. Little Rohma wriggled free of her grandfather and followed her eagerly.

"You're going to fight with Caelar right?" she piped, dancing and weaving around Freya's ankles so that she was forced to either stop or risk tripping over her as she had with Pfaug.

Minsc, who had a universal fondness for all children and small animals, gave a friendly smile and came to join the conversation. Rohma held out her hands eagerly for Boo, who scuttled into her palm and let her pet his orange fur.

"She would do better to fight them with a sword. Hitting people with other people is not the best strategy in combat," advised Minsc, sagely. "They squirm too much."

"I'm going to make my friend Luci a felt hamster to go with her sword!" Rohma said proudly. "Luci always plays you when we go on adventures! She does the purple paint around her eye and everything." Minsc beamed with approval. "But then she has to wash it off so that we have someone to be Lady Skie for the wedding game."

"The wedding game?" echoed her mother, who was obviously only just hearing of this.

"Yeah!" explained Rohma. "I'm Freya and I get married to Lady Skie (that's Luci) and then Jim is Coran and he's the best man. He doesn't like the wedding bit of the game though, so me and Luci have to tie him up first!"

"Er…?" Freya stammered, looking up at Corwin with a bewildered shrug. She wasn't sure how to handle this at all, though to be fair this wedding-phobic 'Jim' did sound like an appropriate choice to be Coran.

"I know you two don't really get married," added Rohma, "Not in real life. But everyone knows you're in love with her and it's a better end to the game! _And_ if you got married for real it would be the best wedding ever because TWO DRESSES! But Lady Skie wants to marry some man so I guess it won't happen."

"Oh… you heard about that?" replied Freya awkwardly.

"Everyone's heard about that and everyone's heard about you!" growled the old man. "Not everyone's heard good things."

"That's true, I heard Mummy telling Mr Bernard that you're an ob-nox-shus shit for brains!" Rohma piped up eagerly. Freya grimaced and shot the Captain a sideways scowl and the officer tried to shush her daughter. Rohma, however, was not finished with the awkward comments just yet. "Are you going to kill Caelar like you killed Sarevok?"

"I think your mother should probably answer that," replied Freya desperately, but Minsc stepped in to help.

"Let Minsc take care of this," he began reassuringly. "Little girl. In this world, there are many butts. Some are good butts, and those we shall leave unkicked. _Some_ butts however…"

"They'll do what they have to!" cut in the child's grandfather. He had a waspish, grating sort of voice that was just like Captain Corwin's. Freya disliked him immediately and had made up her mind to extract herself from the conversation. Rohma, however, had more questions and was not about to let a little thing like parental disapproval deter her from asking them.

"Don't mind my Grampa, he's scared of everything," the little girl giggled. "Is it true you're not scared of anything?"

"There are a few things I'm scared of," admitted Freya, with a grin, "But not much."

"What could be so scary that even you're frightened of it?" Rohma asked, eyes wide.

Freya's eyes flickered to Corwin's briefly. It had not escaped her notice nor the Duke's that the werewolf had spent months sleeping in full armour. Nor had her periodic bouts of waking up screaming gone unheard. Concerned that it might be wolf-related and fearing for the safety of his family, Duke Silvershield had demanded to know what was going on. Freya had been reluctantly forced to admit that it was simple cowardice.

She was petrified of the Hooded Man. In truth Corwin couldn't blame her. She and the Duke had shared their own fears after their confrontation with him on the docks. There he had faced the combined efforts of the Flaming Fist and their near-indestructible Hero. Yet the Hooded Man had teleported away with nothing more than a few scratches. This was no fit subject matter for a little one though.

"Promise you won't tell?" said Freya, winking at Corwin and kneeling down so that she was face to face with the tiny girl. The Captain looked unconvinced that this was a good idea, but her daughter nodded eagerly with shining eyes.

Freya whispered something in her ear. Rohma looked at her Mum and then burst into hysterical giggles. With a barking laugh, and ignoring Corwin's alarmed expression, the werewolf ruffled the little girl's curls, then jerked back her hand guiltily remembering Corwin's earlier threat and strode back to her party.

"What did she say?" demanded Corwin, folding her arms. Her daughter looked up at her, spluttered with giggles and shook her head.

"I promised the Hero of Baldur's Gate that I wouldn't tell," Rohma replied cheekily. Corwin said nothing but drummed her fingers on her arm, her eyes gleaming. The child tried to stuff her fist into her mouth to stifle herself but it was a doomed effort. In her early days with the Flaming Fist Corwin had earned a reputation as a fearsome interrogator. Small children, however, are incapable of keeping secrets and will crack of their own volition to fill a silence. "Maybe it'd be ok if you and Grampa promise not to tell too?"

"We promise," sighed Corwin, smiling fondly at how predictable her daughter could be. "Now tell me, what is the 'Hero of Baldur's Gate' afraid of?" The little girl burst into a fresh round of delighted giggles and pointed right at her mother.

"You!" Rohma cried gleefully. "She says you're way scarier than Caelar _and_ Sarevok!"

"Huh. Good answer," replied Corwin, surprised to find that she was not displeased. "Maybe the 'Hero' has more brains than I gave her credit for." She paused, then added in a stilted sort of way, "I love you very much Rohma, you know that right?"

"I know," sighed Rohma. "I love you too Mama."

The Fist legion was standing to attention now and the recruits were forming lines ready to set out. Freya and her party went to join them. It was baking in the sun. Hopefully once they got a way out of the city the overhanging trees might provide a little shade. As Corwin led her family back to the cordon so that the army could begin their march, the old man leaned in and whispered in her ear.

"Be careful of her," warned Corwin's father. "If the fact that she's a werewolf _and_ a child of Bhaal doesn't prove that she is evil, then just look at her friends! She is allied to a filthy drow. What more proof do you need?"

Corwin, Rohma and the old man stared at Viconia. The drow spotted them immediately. She was as afraid of the crowd as Arrow was, and with much better reason. If the mood of the mob were to turn sour she had nowhere to run and would be easy prey. She wanted to escape them, and the hideous, roasting sun, and retreat into the cool shelter of the shadows. She had been scanning the people constantly with her red eyes, on high alert for any sign of aggression.

"Look all you wish, I find your sun cursed skin and stunted ears equally fascinating," Viconia spat at the Corwin family.

She quickly regretted her loss of temper as it drew the attention of the rivven away from Freya and onto herself. Nobody threw any flowers at her. To be fair, they did not hurl shoes either but there was definitely some jeering.

"You have a problem with drow?" hissed Viconia, though she was careful to keep her voice low so that the people could not actually hear her. "Look elsewhere lest I pluck your eyes from their skulls."

"Yeah, I feel like that too now and then," said Freya with a dark laugh. "Sometimes I think that if I ever stopped trying to control the wolf for their sake and let it take over, these little gits would get exactly what they deserved." She paused, shrugged, then added more light-heartedly; "But if I ate them all who'd be left to bring me a beer to wash them down with, eh?"

Viconia smiled. Seduction was a powerful tool, but using it on Freya would mean forgoing her own pleasures. It was not as good as harnessing rage. It sounded to her as though, deep down, Freya resented the people who looked down on her. She understood that. More importantly she could use that. Convince the Hero that they were two oppressed misfits against the rest of the world, and she would be assured unconditional loyalty. A guard dog of her very own.

The trumpets sounded and the march began. At first, being at the front of the parade, it was difficult for Arrow and Freya to gauge how fast they ought to be walking. The army drummers and the rhythmic steps of the trained officers cracked into their skulls however, and soon they were marching more or less in time with the others. There was a good mile between them and the outer gate and people had lined the streets every inch of the way.

"We're with you Freya!"

"Show Caelar what we do with her kind in the Gate!"

Suddenly there was a commotion at the edge of the cordon. Two blue-haired gnomes broke free of the crowd and ran in front of the procession. At first it seemed to Arrow as though the march would not stop. Corwin and the Duke continued to press forward, their pace unslowed, as though their intention were to simply mow them down. Arrow recognized one of them as Glint Gardnersonson, the gnome whose surname she had borrowed for her disguise. The other was shrivelled and frail. Arrow guessed that this must be his mother. Before they could be crushed by hundreds of pairs of steel boots, Arrow ran forward to shield the pair and raised a hand for the parade to stop.

Few people knew, and nobody cared, about the Hero's sister. Yet this display fitted with the people's general mood. Duke Silvershield was the villain about to put down peaceful protestors, and this girl had heroically stood up to him and prevented it. There was a light scattering of applause.

"What are you doing? Cheering? Cheering for a sibling of Sarevok?" cried Glint's mother. "That's what they are! It was all in Sarevok's journal but the council of four want to keep it a secret! Duke Silvershield dines from golden plates while his people starve. Even you soldiers aren't paid enough to feed your families. Now he's recruiting monsters to prop up his unjust dictatorship!"

"You question the Hero of Baldur's Gate?" cried Captain Corwin furiously, as two guards seized a gnome each. She, of course, questioned the Hero on a near hourly basis. She questioned her morals, her competency and even on occasion her sanity. Yet if nothing else the werewolf served a propaganda purpose for her master, Duke Silvershield, and it was not the place of peasants to question their betters.

"L- let me talk to them Corwin," said Arrow timidly. The Captain looked her up and down disdainfully.

"That's a bad idea," Corwin replied flatly.

"Hear me people of Baldur's Gate. I know you suffered at Sarevok's hands," she called. "I know you fear what the future holds with the heretic Caelar driving good people from their homes across the Sword Coast. We hear your cries for justice and I am sure that once Caelar sees our army and hears first hand the suffering she has caused, we will be able to negotiate a peace!"

Only a handful of the crowd heard that last sentence but those who did were incensed. The refugees had lost everything, their homes and livelihoods. They had been driven from their lands and watched friends and family butchered. Meanwhile the locals had seen their city change beyond all recognition. The once clean and thriving streets were swimming in filth and misery. By night they were kept awake from the weeping, by day they were afraid to open their front doors.

Peace? Nobody wanted them to march North to negotiate a peace! They wanted their lands back and their barns rebuilt. They wanted the refugees out of the city and settled back in their homes. For trade to resume and prosperity to return and for everything to be as it was before. But most of all they wanted justice. They wanted to see the crusade and its leaders punished, severely!

Anger spread like wildfire as word was passed back through the crowd. They were outraged by what Arowan had said. Angry jeers and boos rose up. The ranger froze, stunned and shell-shocked. After all the misery this war had caused how could the people oppose peace? These soldiers were their people too. How could they want them to risk their lives if it wasn't necessary?

"Peace?" cried one woman, "They drowned my husband in his own well! I spit on your peace!"

Up in the guttering, Rasaad watched the scene unfold with mounting anxiety. The procession had brought them much closer to him now so that he could hear clearly what was said. There was nothing he could do to help however. The wizard was still holding him motionless with his dark magic.

"Oh dear, she isn't doing very well is she?" Irenicus remarked silkily into the monk's ear.

Freya too was growing concerned. Her sister's non-existent charisma was rapidly turning a mild embarrassment into a catastrophe. For no reason, as far as she could tell. Neither the Dukes nor Corwin had mentioned anything to her about a 'peaceful solution.' The crowd were pressing in on both sides. The soldiers were fingering their swords and looking jumpy. This situation could get very bad very quickly. She held up her hands for silence, but between them, Glint's mother and Arrow had riled up the mob so badly that even Freya was pelted with a boot. She picked it up calmly and held it aloft.

"I appreciate the thought," she bellowed at the top of her voice, which was very loud indeed, "But I prefer to chew up slippers. Or a nice pair of socks."

"Monster!"

"Bhaalspawn!"

The werewolf dropped the shoe and nodded resignedly. Self-effacing humour was not going to hack it. She would need to bring out the big guns. Fortunately, unlike Arrow, Freya's charisma was the stuff of legend. She paused for a moment, reading the faces of the crowd and listening to what they were shouting as she chewed over what to say.

"Fuck the Dukes, fuck the peace and fuck you!"

"We'll mount your heads right next to Caelar's!"

"Evil bitch!"

Freya grinned, then, to Corwin and the Duke's utter horror, she transformed. Right there, in front of all the people. Her snout lengthened, fur sprouted from her and a tail ripped into existence. In seconds she had turned herself into the stunning honey-blonde beast. That got the people's attention. For a moment nobody made a sound, staring at the creature in rapt silence. Then she turned and streaked along the procession earning her shrieks and gasps from the mob. In the centre of the main road was a small fountain shaped like a mermaid. The wolf launched herself at it, bursting through the water in a shower of star-like droplets and golden fur.

The boos were starting to turn into oohs.

Freya seamlessly resumed her human form mid-leap and landed with one arm around the stone mermaid. Her hand rested on the statue's breast, _probably_ more by accident than design. Corwin could not tell whether the woman's sunny disposition in the face of this hostile mob was because she was high on adrenaline, epically arrogant or still slightly drunk from the night before. Perhaps a bit of each. Nevertheless, Freya raised her free hand for silence, and this time she got it.

"People of Baldur's Gate!" she called in a carrying voice. "You have been told that I am a Bhaalspawn, a werewolf, a bloodthirsty monster…"

"You _are_ a bloodthirsty monster!" a man bellowed from the mob. Freya grinned wolfishly at him.

"Well of course I'm a bloodthirsty monster!" she bellowed back. There was a gasp, but then she cocked her head to one side. "But hang on… Whose problem is that, yours? Or the crusade's?" Murmurs of agreement rippled through her audience, but they were still punctuated with shouts of 'bitch' and 'mad dog.'

"If I'm a mad dog, then I'm the dog that's guarding your yard!" hollered Freya. "I'm the attack dog you send to rip up the thieves who stole your land and burned your homes. I'm not just any bitch, I'm Baldur's Gate's bitch!"

The cries of support were outweighing the cries of dissent now. Freya was winning them around. Arrow scowled resentfully. Even after everything that they had been through already, they were hollering for more violence, more bloodshed. They were ready to sow even more loss and misery, just so that they could have their revenge. Freya's armour gleamed in the sun, her beautiful face captivated every watcher. If only she would speak up for peace instead of glamourizing war! Then the werewolf raised her voice into a thundering bellow.

"And I promise you this! The 'Shining Lady' is going to rue the day she chose to cross swords with the Bitch of Baldur's Gate!"

Laughter and cheers rose from the crowd. Freya winked in the direction of the Flaming Fist's commander. The Captain knew what she needed to do, but for a moment she considered not doing it. Stoking Freya's popularity and feeding her ego were the last things the 'hero' needed. Then again, she had just averted a riot, one which would have swept up Rohma. Duke Silvershield was watching the werewolf, his expression torn between grateful relief and envy. Corwin sighed, shrugged and raised her sword.

"The Bitch of Baldur's Gate!" Corwin shouted.

"The Bitch of Baldur's Gate!" echoed her troops, raising their own swords in unison.

The crowd screamed their approval, roaring and stamping their feet and chanting Freya's name. The two guards, still clutching Glint and his mother, slipped back into the middle of the rows of soldiers. Nobody was paying them any attention anymore. They continued to walk on and this time did not break formation until they were outside the city walls, screams of adoration still ringing in their ears.

"This is what they want? Seriously?!" complained Arrow to Corwin.

"It was a damn good rallying cry," shrugged Corwin as the crowd cheered in their wake. "Face it kid, she has something you just don't." She clapped Arrow on the shoulders and strode forward to keep an eye on her other charge.

"Excuse me mi'lord?" called one of the guards, who was still holding Glint. The one next to him carried his mother, who for such an old lady was struggling with surprising viciousness. "But what do we do with these two?"

"Sign him up," sighed the Duke. "He's far too dangerous to leave behind unsupervised."

"Pardon me but, erm," began Glint, "My mother is really too old to-"

"Old?!" screeched his mother, thrashing and kicking more wildly than ever. "I ought to box your ears, you ungrateful whelp! I can fight Caelar as well as any of these oversized hulking humans! Unhand me at once you ridiculous little boys!"

"Best take her back to the city," replied Silvershield, looking slightly unnerved. "I'm not sure even Caelar has done anything bad enough to deserve this."

"Back to the city or… er _… back to the city_?" asked the guard, saying it the second time in a darker tone of voice.

"No need for that!" said Glint hastily. "You have me as a hostage for her good behaviour. Mother will behave! Won't you mother? _Please?_ "

"Things are not so dire that we need to resort to threatening harmless old ladies," said Silvershield in a reprimanding sort of way. "Take her back to the city gates and let her go."

"Harmless? I'll show you harmless!" howled the gnome as the guard threw her bodily over his shoulder and carried her back the way he had come. Despite having just been drafted into a war, Glint actually sagged with relief to see her go.

So, after swearing the oath, Glint was sent off to the quartermaster and the army continued North. Meanwhile, in Baldur's Gate, Irenicus turned around the frozen Rasaad so that the monk could watch them leave. It was difficult to define, but as soon as Rasaad felt the other man's hands on his arms, he sensed that there was something very wrong about Irenicus. His hands were too cold and stiff, almost like those of a corpse. The fingers were brittle but unnaturally strong, and as his sleeve slipped a little, the monk could see that those metal screws were drilled all the way up.

"I will leave you to meditate on my words," Irenicus' frosty voice rang in Rasaad's ear. "I hope you reconsider. For my sake, and Arowan's."

Irenicus released the paralysis spell and Rasaad stumbled forward, almost tumbling from the rooftop. His skills from the monastery allowed him to right himself before he fell, but the street swam before him in an alarming way and shock pounded through him. By the time he had recovered himself the Hooded Man was nowhere to be seen. In his anger, the monk inconsiderately punched the rooftop, cracking a number of tiles. Fortunately it was a grand enough dwelling that the owners should be able to afford to repair it without too much inconvenience, but he knew that Arrow would not approve. Then he was struck by an even worse thought. Irenicus had listed and ruled out all of Freya's companions who might betray her to him. All but one. He had made no mention of Safana.

The omission was suspicious, given Safana's homicidal rage toward her former leader over her affair with Coran. Yet, like Rasaad, the thief had opted to stay behind in Baldur's Gate, so how dangerous could she be? The monk returned to the Iron Throne building and tried to put it out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bitch of Baldur's Gate was the title I wanted to give this story but ffnet's rules are... repressive. :P


	9. Edwin Fails to Murder Dynaheir: I

Stars twinkled and a sickle moon hung in the cloudless sky. It would have been a pleasant evening were it not for the stench of the sleeping army, who after their long day of marching in the sun were rancid enough to make even an orc's eyes water. A cloaked, shadowy figure peered through the darkness at the slumbering bundles. The camp was quiet, the soldiers drained from lugging their armour through the blistering heat. It was such a mild night that most of them had not bothered to pitch tents and had just curled into their bedrolls by the roadside. An owl hooted loudly in a nearby tree.

"Argh! The avifauna in this backward latrine of a country are as annoying as it's simian inhabitants," the shadow grumbled. He rose from his crouching position under the bush, brushing mud from his hands with an expression of disgust. "Must everything in nature be so filthy?"

"Oh, I don't know," purred a voice, very close to his ear. "Personally, I enjoy a little filth."

Edwin almost screamed, but that would have brought the attention of the camp guards down on him. A very pale woman in skin-tight black leather had crept up behind him. Though the outfit was distinctly lacking in fabric, she did not seem to feel the coolness of the night. It was that which gave her nature away. Well… that and the fangs, and the blood dribbling down her chin.

"Stay away from me!" he warned in a whisper. "Vampire!"

"I'm not here to hurt you," she smiled, stroking Edwin's face. He flinched and backed away, revolted. "I just ate the watchman who was about to sound the alarm on you. The one you thought didn't see you? He saw you."

"Who are you?" demanded Edwin. "What do you want? Why do you interrupt my business?"

"My name is Bodhi," the vampire replied pleasantly. "And your business isn't going well. You aren't very good at stealthy. Luckily for you, I am. Just hand me that lovely dagger you're carrying and bring Freya to me outside of the camp, at night and alone. Do this and I will take care of your witch problem for you."

Edwin considered this. Or at any rate, he pretended to consider it, whilst feeling in his pocket for an invisibility potion. Behind him the owl hooted again making him jump, but at least he didn't have to worry about the watchman any more. Not with Bodhi casually picking bits of him out of her teeth.

"It strikes me," he said, as he discretely uncorked the potion with his thumb, "That you get the better end of this deal. Between Freya and Dynaheir, the witch is by far the easier target. (It comes to this Odesseiron? Conversing with a corpse?)"

"You don't have to hurt Freya," replied Bodhi impatiently, her friendly façade starting to slip. "Just get her on her own!"

"I _could_ do that," nodded Edwin. "Or, alternatively, I could murder Dynaheir myself and get to keep the Soultaker dagger instead of giving it to you. Yes… I think I will do that. Farewell, and a word of advice. If you are going to wear such a tight-fitting outfit, you might consider shaving your bikini line. You appear to have spiders crawling out of your crotch."

"Shave your own bikini line, pig!" snarled Bodhi.

"I happen to shave myself everywhere," replied Edwin in a tone of self-satisfied superiority, "Because I am a Thayan and not a repulsive savage. Now shoo! Go and bathe in virgin blood or whatever it is you creatures like to do."

He drank the potion and vanished from sight. Bodhi hissed with annoyance. He was not fast enough to evade her, and even if he was, she could easily locate the wizard from the muttering and ripping noises as he crashed through the undergrowth. Yet Irenicus had instructed her; no hunting, and technically she had already disobeyed him once this evening. Brother Jon was not very tolerant of disobedience, not even from his sister.

She licked the watchman's tangy copper blood from her lips, savouring it. Vampirism may not have spared her from the elf queen's curse, but she had grown to appreciate aspects of it just the same. One day she would have to cure herself, once she and Irenicus were restored, but no reason not to enjoy it in the meantime.

Edwin, meanwhile, picked over the sleeping soldiers until he found the party. It was not difficult. They were sleeping near to the commander's tents. The Thayan dropped to all fours, the cool ground chilling his fingers and pricking them with tiny stones. He snuck from one sleeper to the other, peering into their faces. There was Captain Corwin, that bossy hag of a woman from Baldur's Bridge. Arrow the incompetent ranger, whose trademark combat style was shooting her own allies. That great, snoring hulk over there must be Minsc, so the sleeping bag closest must be his target!

He drew Soultaker and edged nearer, licking his thin lips with anticipation. Invisible and deadly, he raised the blade gleefully over his blanket-covered victim. Best to lift the material back a fraction just to be certain he had the right person before he struck. The wizard lifted his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his shoulder.

"Wait, Odesseiron, that is an unnatural place to be sweating," he muttered very quietly. It would have been, only the liquid on his shoulder wasn't sweat. It was thick, viscous drool and he could feel warm damp breath against his face. He turned around very slowly to find himself nose to muzzle with a vast wolf.

"Grrrrrrrr."

Edwin hastily stashed the Soultaker dagger back into his robes, his neck throbbing in terror.

"Freya!" he exclaimed, as though delighted to see her, though the two of them had never been friends. As he spoke, he broke the invisibility spell but that hardly mattered when she could obviously smell him. "How are you? I don't suppose you can answer in that state, can you? Why don't you turn back, and we can catch up on old times!"

To his surprise Freya actually did turn back, her long fangs pulling in and her fur receding. All except for the hair on her head which lengthened into a yellow waterfall, shimmering in the moonlight. Only her grey eyes remained the same, and they did not leave his own throughout the whole change. Unfortunately, she was scarcely less dangerous in human form.

"If I were to savage you as a wolf in the middle of camp, I expect people would panic," she explained, drawing her swords. "Defend yourself wizard!"

"Wait!" howled Edwin, so loudly that all around him people began to wake up. The woman he had been about to stab sat up, only it wasn't Dynaheir. It was Viconia. Edwin was struck by a bolt of inspiration and he begged Freya, "At least let me say goodbye to her! I had to see her one last time!"

"What are you prattling on about?" snapped Freya.

"Good morning, ah but it is still night!" Minsc greeted the waking world blearily and flopped back down again. Dynaheir sat up several bedrolls away from her protector. She was wearing wax plugs in her ears. Apparently, the witch did not relish the berserker's snoring. Edwin spoke very hastily. He had to, if he hoped to talk himself out of a summary execution by either Freya's sword or Minsc's.

"Viconia!" cried Edwin. "My one true love! (No Odesseiron, keep it believable…) One of my most adequate recent concubines!"

"You just walked in here?" growled Freya. "The cock on you!"

"Is magnificent I agree," the Thayan replied modestly. Viconia made a derisory noise. "Viconia, I have come all this way to ask for your," he seemed to choke a little on the word, "forgiveness. I beg you to take me back. But if you won't such is life, I suppose, and I will be on my way. If you simians will excuse me…"

"What a transparent deception!" cried Dynaheir. "Clearly this Red Wizard came here to make another feeble attempt on mine life!"

"It is not always about you!" protested Edwin, though of course it was.

He began to inch away now. Minsc was sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Edwin noted, to his disgust, that the warrior had a rodent lurking in his bedroll. It was not just the party who were waking up. Around the camp soldiers were starting to sit up and take notice. There was a slow clang of weapons being picked up. His chances of slipping away discretely were growing increasingly slim.

"I dunno," frowned Freya, hefting her swords. "It _was_ Viconia he was sniffing about over, Dynaheir, not you." She cocked her head to one side and thought about it. "I'll let you go Edwin, but I'm going to order the officers to shoot on sight if they see you skulking around here again."

This seemed fair. Arrow and Corwin shrugged and rolled over to sleep again. Edwin gave a stiff little bow and started to hasten away, watched curiously by the soldiers. He was muttering furiously to himself as he went. If the vacuous dog-woman could sniff him out then he would need another plan. Perhaps he could wait for the quartermaster to answer a call of nature and then bribe him to…

"No!" Viconia's voice sliced through the cold night air. Edwin screwed his eyes shut. The drow was going to tell everyone about their last fight and that there was no way he would have come back for her. He would have to fight his way out. Against an army this size it was an impossible task, even for a wizard of his skill. The drow, however, had another plan in mind. "Edwin my love, I beg of you do not go!" she cried dramatically. The Thayan goggled at her. "I cannot live without you."

The Red Wizard stood there, utterly dumbstruck. This was a surprising turn of events, but at the same time understandable. Naturally, having experienced his love, she found that she could not bear to be without it. He expected that all his previous lovers must have similar feelings. Ironic that he had both given their pitiful lives meaning, and then had to take it away when he left.

"What is thine problem Edwin?" jeered Dynaheir. She had no idea what Viconia was playing at, but from the other woman's smirking demeanour she doubted these declarations of love were remotely sincere. "Why dost thou not go to her? She _is_ the whole reason for thine presence is she not?"

"If not the reason for my whole life," sighed Edwin reluctantly. He kept the fury out of his voice but barely. Shaking with suppressed rage, he stalked over to Viconia who stood and gave him a long, slow kiss. As this was going on, he failed to notice Minsc focussing his sleepy eyes on him, and rising from his bunk slowly. Everybody else did, but nobody bothered to warn him. He broke the kiss but Viconia sucked in his bottom lip and bit it hard, her red eyes glowing with malice.

"RARRRRRGHHH!"

A great booted foot, belonging to Dynaheir's enraged bodyguard swung so hard into Edwin's behind that it knocked both him and Viconia down onto her bedroll. Edwin howled and clutched his rear with both hands, before they migrated to his lower back which was always causing him grief. This time Viconia did not bother to heal him, but shoved him roughly aside instead. Just days ago, he had dumped her and thrown her out of his house. Despite her age, she was not a woman who handled that sort of rejection maturely.

"Ah," laughed Freya. "Minsc is awake."

"You!" raged the berserk man. He pointed a sausage-like finger at the stricken wizard. "You have come back to kill Minsc's witch! Prepare for a butt kicking, evil one!"

From his prone position, Edwin started a desperate incantation but another kick from Minsc interrupted him before he could cast it. Arrow had sat up again and was grinning a bit. She did not hold a personal grudge against Edwin the way she did against Viconia, but he had been rude and egotistical in the time that he had known her. She was happy to watch his bottom take some punishment. With a roar of rage, Minsc drew his sword and swung it in a wide arc. Edwin screeched and threw his arms protectively over his face.

"Woah!" yelled Freya, bounding forward and wrapping herself around his arm to prevent the blow from landing. "Woah there, big guy. Steady now."

Minsc struggled, but the magically enhanced werewolf was just stronger than he was. He was pretty large himself though, and thrashing in a berserk rage. Soon Freya was breathless from the effort of containing him. Edwin, miraculously regaining his dignity once the immediate threat had been contained, got up smugly and brushed himself off. He was about to get a nasty shock, however.

"Oh, Edwin my love," cried Viconia theatrically. "Of course, I forgive you and I will take you back. I so miss the way you used to rub my shoulders in the evening, carry my packs for me, shine my boots and bring me breakfast in bed." She added with a sly smile; "All of which you are going to do for me. Because I am the reason you are here."

"Hang on, I haven't agreed to this!" grunted Freya, who was still trying to wrestle Minsc back to his bedroll.

"And naturally you will want to express your gratitude to our leader for sparing your miserable life," said Viconia sweetly. "By serving as our party wizard for a greatly reduced share of any treasure, taking her watch for her, brewing worming potions. That sort of thing."

"I hardly ever need worming potions," panted the werewolf defensively. "Only if I ate something dodgy at full moon, and I don't trust him to take my watch for me. Still, I do need a new wizard…"

"Thou cannot be serious?" cried Dynaheir.

"It's your call, Dynaheir, you have first dibs," Freya said fairly. "Tell me you want the job back and I'll send Edwin packing!" Minsc was calming down a little now, slowly emerging from his mindless state. Freya made the mistake of loosening her grip too soon and he elbowed her hard in the stomach, causing her to crumple. She groaned loudly and tackled the man to the ground. This left no hand free to protect her eyes, but fortunately Boo was not taking sides in this.

"I have told thee a thousand times!" snapped Dynaheir. "Thou and I cannot renew our alliance while Viconia travels with thee."

That implied that she would go back to Freya the instant Viconia was gone. Despite not having been in their party for very long, Arrow could not help but feel a little hurt. Corwin was not impressed by this turn of events either. The Red Wizard had tried to murder Dynaheir, a guest at the time in the Ducal Palace. It had never gone to trial because Arrow refused to testify, but she knew what he had done and did not want to bring him to Dragonspear.

"First the drow and now this," Corwin grumbled to Arrow, who nodded darkly.

"Gimmie a break Dynaheir," Freya wheezed. "I'm being hunted by a wizard. You can't expect me to pass up a mage of my own!"

With an angry noise, the Rashemen grabbed her things and Minsc's and moved them to a distant spot in the camp. She slammed them down pointedly, turning to glare at her former leader Freya with a resentful expression. Arrow gathered her belongings and followed them. As she left, she felt Viconia's spiteful smiling eyes drilling into the back of her skull. For a moment Freya looked as though she might run after Dynaheir, but she was immediately distracted by another new arrival.

"S'cuse me Sir!" a guard called to Freya. "We found this one on the edge of the camp. Claims to know you!"

"Sorry I'm late darlings," Safana preened. "Marches really aren't my thing, and you wouldn't believe how difficult it is to buy a horse in wartime. Oh, Freya, if you looked any happier to see me I swear your tail would be wagging."

"Safana!" cried Freya, whose inner-tail _always_ started wagging when she saw one of her own pack. "I thought you weren't coming!"

"Well I wasn't planning to," the thief drawled, playing idly with one of her rings. "But then I heard that a certain pointy eared someone in a green mask would be staying in Baldur's Gate and I felt this sudden intense urge to get away from the place." Freya went to hug her and Safana held out a warning dagger. "Do not think this means I've forgiven you. Not by a long shot! Stay away from me unless there's a lock on a treasure chest that needs picking."

"Understood!" Freya saluted happily. "Still, I'm glad to have you back."

" _I know you are, you braindead furball,"_ Safana thought. _"But I bet you wouldn't be if you knew why I'd come."_


	10. The Great Yoshimo

As the army continued North, Captain Schael Corwin and her aide, Corporal Bence Duncan, maintained order in the caravan from Baldur's Gate. Some who joined the expedition were unaccustomed to Flaming Fist discipline. Hard lessons were learned in the early days of the march.

Rap tap tap tap. Rap tap tap tap.

"Oh, fuck me," moaned Freya. "Come on Corwin, can't you just tell the band to give it a rest? My hearing might be ten times sharper than yours but even you must be finding this annoying."

"You'd be finding it less annoying if you weren't hungover," scolded Corwin. She and Safana were riding either side of Freya on horseback, but the werewolf went on foot. War and city horses were usually conditioned to tolerate dogs, but they'd get a little edgy if they smelled a canine trying to mount them. "And that is why you get to march with the band today."

"Fuck me," Freya groaned again.

" _I'll_ fuck you," leered one of the drummers. Freya turned her bleary, aching head to look at those blasted rap-tap-tapping drumsticks.

"You're fucking with me already," she said. "Trust me."

The journey was slowed by the blistering heat and the seemingly endless flow of victims fleeing the crusade. A multitude of broken, haunted men and women clogged the coast way. When asked, their stories were much the same as the refugees in the city. Granaries ransacked, homes set aflame and family members conscripted into the crusade. Arrow, who had nothing left to give them and no aid to offer, could only offer her condolences and move on.

Yet there was a strange recurring theme. Many of the displaced people seemed to feel that their suffering was in aid of a greater good. There seemed to be a strange acceptance, and even admiration of Caelar. Some even tried to persuade the expedition to turn back, declaring that Caelar was a sort of prophet, doing the work of not one but all faiths, all gods.

"What say you to this notion?" Edwin asked Viconia mockingly. "Does she offend your beliefs or does the notion of a 'servant of all gods' appeal to your primitive superstitions?"

"Love of my life," sneered Viconia, silkily, "I am thirsty and have used up all of my water ration. Give me yours."

"Yes, give the matron serpent water Odesseiron. Drown her in it," the Red Wizard muttered as he pulled out his water skin and handed it to her. She took a great swig, sloshed it around her mouth and spat it pointedly onto the ground. He narrowed his eyes at her. She had not even wanted a drink, only to show him who held the whip now. As she refastened the stopper she took care to spill a large quantity of his remaining water on the ground, just to make a point.

For all the threats he made under his breath, the drow had won. He was basically her man-servant now. He wished, fervently, that he had thought of a better excuse for his presence in the camp than his love for her. Now she had him carrying her pack, massaging her feet and running little errands for her. He even slept in her tent with her, to keep up the pretence that they were still lovers. There she continued to punish him, flicking his ears while he tried to memorize spells and dribbling cold water down the back of his neck when he least expected it. Once she even dropped a spider into the Thayan's mouth while he slept.

It was another warm day, though not so unpleasantly scorching as the first. The further they got from the city, the more far apart the farms became and the trees grew denser. For Arrow it was not quite the same as roaming the woods on her own. The clanging of armour and thudding of hundreds of pairs of feet had driven away most of the wildlife. The birdsong might have been pleasant, had the ranger not recognized their calls as distress at so many giant interlopers crashing through their territory. Still it was better than being in the city, and she began to find that she was rather enjoying herself. It was around mid-afternoon when she spotted a familiar face and broke off from Minsc and Dynaheir.

"Hello?" ventured Arrow.

Glint jumped guiltily. Something about his demeanour gave the impression that he was always either up to something or _about_ to be up to something. Despite this, he hardly gave off the vibe of being rebel material and yet he had thrown a rotten turnip at Duke Silvershield during Eric's trial and leapt out in front of the parade on the way out of Baldur's Gate. Arrow was curious to know why.

"Hm, what mmm?" the gnome replied distractedly. "Oh uh, hello. Uh, excuse me. I've got to go."

"Go? Go where?" replied Arrow, unable to keep herself from laughing at the blustering little man with his blue beard and wide eyes.

"Somewhere. Anywhere. Oh dear…" Glint sighed. "It isn't personal. My mother really wouldn't like me talking to you. I'm sorry."

"But you told me you thought your mother and I would have a lot in common!" protested Arrow. Glint looked perplexed. "I have to say, after meeting your mother, that may not be the compliment I thought it was at the time."

"Have we met?" he puzzled.

"Alix Whosonson," she grinned, holding out her hand.

"Alix who… that was _you?_ " cried Glint, and then he burst into laughter.

"It was a way to get about the city without attracting anyone's attention," laughed Arrow. "Except yours apparently. I'm sorry you got dragged into Freya's war. Not as sorry as I am that _I_ got dragged into it but still… How are you doing anyway?"

"This is the life, isn't it?" cried Glint, with not wholly-convincing enthusiasm. "Marching in step, meeting new people, some of whom aren't trying to kill us. Just… soldiering. I love it. Love it."

He cast a nervous glance toward the commanders. Though Corwin was notionally in command of the army, Duke Silvershield rode back and forth between Baldur's Gate and the caravan on a white charger. Sometimes more than once per day. He had to be using magical aid in order to achieve this, even a thoroughbred stallion like his could not be that fast. He was riding with Corwin now and the pair of them were conversing in low voices. Every so often one of them would shoot a dark glance in Freya's direction.

"It's ok Glint," smiled Arrow, "I don't think the Dukes like me much either, although I never threw a turnip at one of them. How come you did that anyway?"

"Well, because mother told me to is the short answer." The gnome bit his lip, looking uncomfortable. "The long answer is… long. Well, actually, it isn't that long, but I think talking with you about it might not be a smart idea. Seeing as how you live in the Ducal Palace and your sister is the Hero of Baldur's Gate."

"And I'm a Bhaalspawn," Arrow reminded him, slightly accusingly. Glint's mother had nothing nice to say about that during their protest. "Don't forget that!"

"That too!" agreed Glint. He cocked his head and looked at her shrewdly. For a moment, Arrow thought he might be considering saying something else, but he seemed to think the better of it because a moment later he was gone, slipping between the legs of the marching soldiers faster than a grown human would be able to follow.

The day dragged on into evening. Travelling with Minsc in the party was an experience, though like Dynaheir, Arrow soon learned to sift the small amount of meaningful content from the constant stream of random things he said. The witch herself said little. She was very aloof and seemed to spend a lot of her time watching Edwin, Viconia and Freya out of the corner of her eye.

There was little question that the werewolf was growing worse under their influence. Viconia took the opportunity during the long walks to drip poisoned words into her ear. Nothing too obvious. Just casual reminders slipped into conversation about how much people despised drow and werewolves. Viconia and Safana had got on in the past, but the thief had taken to watching the drow suspiciously. Edwin continued to carry Viconia's things for her, grumbling under his breath almost constantly, and plotting Dynaheir's demise. All in all, it was an uncomfortable camp, and that night when Arrow noticed that Freya was missing, the ranger tracked her paw prints deep into the wood. Any excuse to get away.

The tracks led through dense bushes, but Freya was a large animal and the trail of crushed flora was not difficult for a trained ranger to follow. At length they emerged into a small clearing and there, poking out from under a bush, was the werewolf's golden tail. Arrow tugged it like one of the bells in the Ducal Palace. A canine head popped out of the top of the bush, turned to her like a periscope, and ducked back down again. Seconds later, human-Freya shuffled backward out of the greenery, bits of leaf and twig clinging to her long blonde mane.

"Check it out!" Freya whispered admiringly, hauling Arrow to her feet. Arrow looked in the direction that the werewolf was pointing. A young soldier was single-handedly battling a crusade assassin and a part-ogre. Arrow let out a yelp of horror, and notched an arrow into her bow. It was Skie.

Freya smiled and shook her head, firmly lowering Arrow's weapon so that it pointed at the ground. The young thief was incredibly quick on her feet, ducking a blow from the ogre and skirting around the assassin. She moved around rapidly, keeping the assassin between herself and the ogre, who was not fast enough to keep up with her. A vicious exchange of dagger-swipes followed, which left the man bleeding to death on the mossy ground. The ogre let out a roar of fury and charged Skie, crushing the ribs of his fallen companion under his feet with an unpleasant crunch. Freya was watching with an admiring look on her charming face, though Arrow got the impression that she would intervene in a heartbeat if she thought Skie were in any real danger.

The Flaming Fist's most important foot soldier stood her ground until the last second, before side-stepping the part-ogre and slashing his tendons as he barrelled past her. It howled and sank to its knees, before Skie's standard-issue short sword found the back of its neck and plunged downward.

"I had to make sure she didn't get hurt," sighed Freya. "Doesn't look like I was needed though. She's amazing isn't she?"

"And THAT'S what happens when I don't get what I want!" Skie yelled at the part-ogre's body.

Arrow could not believe what she was witnessing. Not only had the young noblewoman risked her own life, but she had gambled the futures of every unfortunate bystander whom Duke Silvershield was likely to blame for her death. More than that, she had lured Freya away from the camp. If the Hooded Man were to stumble upon them now, the three of them would have their work cut out fighting their way back to the shelter of the Flaming Fist.

"Of all the irresponsible-" Arrow started. Skie looked up panting, seemingly noticing the pair of them for the first time.

"Freya?" pouted Skie, her hand on her hip. "What are you doing here? Why didn't you help me fight these beasts?"

"My apologies mi'lady," replied Freya with an ironic bow. "Had I arrived sooner I would certainly have helped. Might I enquire why her ladyship was fighting these beasts in the first place?"

Skie scowled at her.

"Don't call me 'lady!' You know I hate it."

"Don't talk to me like I'm one of your servants," grinned Freya, sitting down on a large rock. For a moment Skie looked as though she might start berating the warrior again, but then she smiled sarcastically. There was nowhere for her to sit so she boldly plonked herself on Freya's lap instead, and scratched behind her ears. Freya threw her head back with a submissive moan, while Arrow stood there with an expression of awkward irritation, not knowing where to look.

"Never mind, I take it back," Freya mumbled happily. "You can talk to me however you like. So, why where you fighting these crusaders?"

"Well, I was in the camp. Boring!" grumbled Skie, taking a lock of Freya's golden hair and twisting it around her fingers. "Then I spotted this oaf lurking around the quartermaster's supply tent. I think he thought he was being stealthy if you can believe that. He was trying to poison our rations. I snuck up behind him and gave him the shock of his life. He took off running and there was nobody nearby to stop him, so I went after him. Then I had an idea."

Even Arrow had to admit that this was impressive, but Freya was gazing at the woman on her knee with starry eyes. Despite the fact that Skie was clearly interested in men, Arrow could understand why she found Freya's attention addictive. It must feel wonderful to be loved like that.

"It nearly worked too," Skie went on in a disappointed huff. "Unfortunately his friend knew his business. He spotted me and, well, here we are!"

"Skie you're amazing, you really are," said Freya softly. "You saved us all and our supplies, but you shouldn't have chased him out of camp after you stopped him. If anything happened to you I'd-"

"Urgh, you're SO BORING!" Skie cried, launching herself roughly from Freya and storming away. "I'm going back to the camp."

"Skie? Skie I-" Freya cried, but the other woman did not look back. The werewolf watched her go with a stricken expression.

They stayed there for a moment in silence, Freya staring after Skie like an abandoned puppy and Arrow scanning the wood edgily for more enemies. Footsteps were approaching from the trees. The ranger aimed her bow into the darkness and Freya sprang to her feet drawing her swords, but it was only more refugees. A farmer, her husband and their six small children. Accompanying them was a tall Kara-Turan warrior who did not seem to be related. The father gave his wife a small shove in the back toward the two sisters and the tired, henpecked woman started toward them.

"Fucking hell, I thought the Hooded Man had me that time," Freya grumbled resentfully. "Sod this. I'll see you back at camp."

She turned back into the large golden wolf and bounded away through the trees in a series of loud crashes. Arrow rolled her eyes and looked back to the peasant woman who was now backing away slowly, as her husband gathered their children about him. Arrow was about to put down her weapons when the Kara-Turan man somersaulted between her and the refugees, katana drawn. It was an impressive move, or at least it would have been had he not messed up the landing. As it was he stumbled clumsily at her feet, catching himself with his blade, which plunged into the ground and refused to be pulled out again. The ranger spluttered with laughter. The warrior scowled at her, retrieved his sword with a great heave and stood once more to face her.

"I will not let you hunt these people!" he cried. "Begone, werewolf, for you face none other than the great Yoshimo!"

"Who?" asked Arrow, nonplussed. The warrior looked a little crestfallen, and she felt her lip twitch a little. Despite his ungainly presentation she couldn't help noticing the way his long, dark hair caught the fading light. She carefully explained that she was not a werewolf, nor about to attack the refugees and Yoshimo sheathed his weapon, looking mildly disappointed.

The woman timidly asked how far it was to Baldur's Gate, and though Arrow had no gold left to give, she broke apart the rations she was carrying and handed them out to the children. When she looked up, Yoshimo was smiling at her. He had a cute roguish smile, and she found herself smiling back and turning a little pink.

"We thank Ilmater for the food we are about to receive," the children gabbled very quickly before digging in. Arrow smiled and made the sign of Ilmater for them. To her surprise, Yoshimo did the same, and sat cross-legged beside her.

"Perhaps I have not been on this continent long enough for my reputation to spread," he said, cheerfully. "I arrived here recently. I am on a quest to seek my sister. She was working for a man in Baldur's Gate but he met with an unfortunate accident. After that her letters to me stopped."

"I just came from Baldur's Gate," replied Arrow. "What's her name?"

"Tamoko," Yoshimo replied hopefully. Arrow thought for a moment. The name actually did ring a bell. There were not that many Kara-Turan women in Baldur's Gate and she mentally ran through all the ones she had met. Then her face fell as she remembered.

A frantic, whispered conversation with Sarevok in the library at Candlekeep. A sad, but resigned woman emerging from the underground temple of Bhaal to meet her fate. One flash of Freya's twin bastard swords and a severed head bouncing down the temple steps. And Freya. Freya sitting in her brother's dust on the altar of their father, her swords drenched in Tamoko's blood.

"Tamoko, Sarevok's lover?" Arrow asked, hoping against all odds that he might have meant a different Tamoko.

"Am I to assume from your tone that she is dead?" asked Yoshimo quietly.

"Yes," replied Arrow, feeling that the kindest thing to do would be to tell the man the truth. "She tried to fight the Hero of Baldur's Gate all alone. I don't know why."

Yoshimo's face contorted with distress. He looked about him bleakly as though not sure what he was supposed to do with himself now. Then he took a deep, shivering breath and looked back at Arrow. His dark eyes were pained, and the ranger felt intensely sorry for him. He swallowed, and his next words sounded like they hurt.

"Thank you for telling me," he said, with a small bow. "I had feared this might be the case. Perhaps this was inevitable. She always tended toward evil but her letters grew worse every week she spent with that man. I fear she was too far gone."

"What will you do now?" Arrow put a hand gently on his arm.

"I will take these people the rest of the way to Baldur's Gate," replied Yoshimo, looking about him despairingly. He seemed utterly lost. "And then I suppose I will go home."

The refugee family looked at each other, unsure of what to say. Arrow wracked her brain to try and think of something comforting to tell him. A wood pigeon cawed in a nearby tree, and the woman looked up at it with hungry eyes.

"How can I even grieve?" Yoshimo asked suddenly, his voice cracking. "Knowing for certain that my sister will be condemned to the hells?"

"I don't think she was so very evil," Arrow ventured. "She wanted Sarevok to stop what he was doing, I overheard her trying to persuade him. Maybe she could have been talked out of fighting Freya, if she hadn't killed her so quickly. I don't know, if I'd been there perhaps… but the gods know. Ilmater forgives many things."

"She could have been saved?" asked Yoshimo, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hair. "And the Bhaalspawn did not bother to try. My sister's life was worth nothing to her then?" This was not the take-home message that Arrow had been trying to convey, but if he was heading to the city then he was bound to find out the truth sooner or later. No, Tamoko had meant nothing whatsoever to the Hero of Baldur's Gate. Arrow doubted that Freya would even remember her name. She shrugged, helplessly. Then Yoshimo added, accusingly, "Yet you follow this woman into battle. Why?"

"I'm sort of bound to her. I don't really have much choice," sighed Arrow, hauling herself to her feet. Night was approaching and it was time to be getting back. She did not want the soldiers to have to waste their resting time searching for her. "If I did, I'd be back at the chapel of Ilmater helping with the refugees."

She took her leave, and Yoshimo kissed her hand. Whatever her circumstances, he thought, it was a great pity that this kind lady had to be bound to the evil Bhaalspawn. Yet now he had the truth of it. The Hero of Baldur's Gate, this 'Freya' whom Tamoko had spoken of in her letters, had murdered his sister. What could he do though? She was impossibly strong, wealthy and surrounded by a vast army. Revenge was impossible. There was nothing for him to do but return to his homeland and try to let it go.

Arrow set off back toward the camp deep in thought. The Kara-Turan was clearly angry that Freya had not given his sister a chance, and she could not blame him. It was difficult. She needed her sister, but she did not much like her or how she went about doing things. Would it really have hurt her to allow Tamoko a few moments to speak before decapitating her? Just to be absolutely sure that it was really necessary. She might have been irredeemably evil, she might not, but the Hero had never bothered to find out. Even if Freya was right and Tamoko deserved to die, it did not follow that her family deserved to lose her.

So lost was Arrow in her thoughts that she almost did not notice that Freya had been waylaid close to the camp. She looked up and found herself badly startled. The werewolf was in human form again, seemingly having a friendly chat with none other than Rasaad. Arrow took a step back, thinking that if she could slip back into the trees she might be able to skirt around them without having to talk to him. It was too late, however. The monk had seen her. Nothing to do but carry on walking.

"It is good to see a friendly face in the wilderness," said Rasaad. Freya risked a sideways glance at Arrow. The man was either blind or madly optimistic, because the ranger's expression was anything but friendly. "I have come to join you on your quest, Arowan. If you will still have me?"

"I only asked you to come the first time because I was ordered to by Duke Silvershield," replied Arrow, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "Do you see the Duke here?"

"No," admitted Rasaad.

"There's your answer," said Arrow, firmly. Rasaad looked wounded, but the ranger forced herself not to care.

"Not a problem! Join mine!" chipped in Freya jovially. Arrow turned slowly to face the werewolf with an expression that could have curdled milk. The taller woman happily ignored her. "We could use another fighter and I think you already know my cleric, Viconia? She's back at the camp."

Rasaad, who was still reeling from Arrow's rejection considered this. He had a very mixed opinion of Freya. On the one hand she was a follower of Selune, had saved the Sword Coast from Sarevok and was sponsoring the refugees in the Iron Throne out of pocket. On the other she was crass, undisciplined, known for sleeping with anything in a skirt and had dragged her feet about doing anything to help the refugees for months, despite being one of the wealthiest people in Baldur's Gate.

"Why the change of heart, just out of interest?" asked Freya. She had bribed (or blackmailed depending on how you looked at it) the clerics in the Iron Throne building to say anything to get him to join the expedition. Apparently, their efforts had been a success and she was curious to learn what they had told him.

"The members of my order, the missing Selunites," said Rasaad earnestly. "I was told that they had joined with Caelar. If this is true then they have abandoned the Sun Soul Order and turned to heresy." He turned to Arrow. "Forgive me. I understand that you do not want me here, but I must see for myself if this is true."

"You, Freya, Edwin and Viconia?" replied Arrow coldly. "Outstanding. That means all the people I wish to avoid will be in one place. How convenient."

"Aww don't be like that little sister," sighed Freya. "I know you have this thing against drow, but you and me, we're family."

"I have nothing against drow!" snapped Arrow. "I have something specifically against _Viconia._ Namely that she tried to murder me. The little spider feeds you more garbage every day and yet you keep swallowing it. I am not biased against drow."

"You say that," said Freya, a triumphant spark in her grey eyes, "And yet you just called a drow a spider. Bit like calling a werewolf 'dog' that is. Or implying that we eat garbage. Sounds pretty biased to me. Just saying."

Arrow looked from Freya to Rasaad with an expression so feral that for a moment the werewolf imagined that she was looking at one of her own kind.

"You have got to be two of the stupidest people in Faerun!" she snapped. "You know what? I take it back. Form a party together. Between the two of you, you might be able to piece together enough fragments of brain to form one functioning mind!"

She stormed back to camp without a backward look, her head thumping. That night she had a very hard time getting to sleep, but even in her dreams she seemed unable to escape her sister. They shared a peculiar vision. A nightmare about Sarevok, and the Hooded Man.


	11. Irenicus Sends a Vision

"Well, look where we are!" laughed Freya.

Arrow did not think that there was anything to laugh about. Her dream had brought her to the great temple of Bhaal, concealed under the city of Baldur's Gate. It was here that Freya had slain their brother Sarevok. Those were the steps, just outside, where Tamoko's poor severed head had tumbled. The image of it bouncing away, morbidly comical and undignified even in death, was one that she was unlikely to ever forget. In all likelihood it was still there. The rotting, meaty smell surrounding them now suggested that none of her comrades had been removed for burial.

Hopefully Yoshimo would be spared these grizzly details when he arrived in the city. He had been so kind to protect those refugees on their journey. Even if he was a little hapless for a hero. Arrow wondered if he was going to be alright. Perhaps she ought to have directed him to the Chapel of Ilmater, but then the last thing the unfortunate man needed was to contract dysentery.

Evil statues glared down at the two sisters. If Freya was really in the dream with her, and based on past experience Arrow had every reason to suppose that she was, she could not understand what the werewolf was finding so entertaining. Her sister was laughing so hard now that she looked on the verge of hysteria. The blood-soaked altar of the cult of Bhaal was strewn with golden ashes and the looted, decomposing corpses of Sarevok's allies lay about their feet. It had been months, but in the cool, dry temple they were taking a long time to disintegrate. Each was surrounded by a sticky, semi-dried pool of leeched body fluids. Nobody had bothered to collect them. Arrow tried to look anywhere but at their faces. Then she caught sight of something that was sure to make the werewolf stop laughing.

She slapped her fellow Candlekeep Bhaalspawn sharply on her broad shoulder. There, lurking under one of the statues, was the Hooded Man and behind him stood Imoen. Freya froze. Arrow drew back her bow and fired at him, but the flaming missile passed straight through him and out the other side. She screamed as it continued its flight, through Imoen's head, but she too was unscathed. In fact, Imoen did not seem to be aware of the situation at all, she was staring blankly ahead, her arms hanging limply by her sides.

"Ah, your sisters are here," the Hooded Man said in a cold, empty voice. It was not clear who he was talking to, but he seemed to address his words to the gruesome altar. "You may come out now."

The golden powder began to shift. It congealed into great clumps which oozed toward each other like sewer slimes. As they watched, the amorphous mass began to take the form of a man. A great, naked muscular man with glowing eyes and a ringing voice. He looked down at himself and concentrated hard. Then around him his armour reformed, his broadsword materialized in his hand and finally his monstrous golem-like helm took its place on his head. Sarevok ignored Arowan, Imoen and the Hooded Man and instead focussed his attention on Freya.

"You did not think me truly dead, did you?" he mocked her. "We've a bond between us, you and I. A connection even the sharpest blade cannot sever. A bond forged in blood, hatred, death. I held the Sword Coast by its throat. It wriggled and squealed in my grip and then… YOU!"

Freya was only half-listening. She had never had much patience for Sarevok's monologuing even when her enemy was alive. While he spoke, she did not take her eyes off of the Hooded Man who was watching them intensely. Arrow was more concerned with Imoen. She tried, discretely, to get the pink haired girl's attention but it was no use. Imoen seemed to be totally oblivious to her surroundings.

"I should have killed you as I had so many others," Sarevok told Freya. "But something stayed my hand. A weakness I had never known before!"

"I know what that was!" Freya burst out suddenly, finally tearing her attention away from the Hooded Man.

"You… do?" Sarevok actually sounded surprised.

"Yeah! It was my teeth on your forearm," grinned Freya, showing off her fangs in a threatening sort of way. "They 'stayed your hand' right before I ripped it off. Had you forgotten? I could remind you if you like."

Sarevok looked sideways at the Hooded Man and then to the door. He made a thoughtful noise, then crossed the temple and tried to open it, ignoring the bodies of his former allies. The Hooded Man made no move to stop him and he strode out. They waited for a while but when he showed no signs of coming back and neither Imoen nor the Hooded Man did anything, Freya shrugged and followed him. Arrow stayed in the middle of the temple like a petrified rabbit. She was not brave enough to approach the Hooded Man, nor could she leave Imoen.

"Follow them," the Hooded Man instructed.

"W- what have you done to Imoen?" quavered Arrow. The Hooded Man looked at the frozen chimera and she started to move. She clutched her head, opened her mouth and let out a long, howling scream. Adrenaline and terror surged through Arrow. This was how Eric had used to scream when the Hooded Man was torturing him in the Black Pits.

"Do as he says!" pleaded Imoen. She was scrabbling with her nails against her head so hard that she risked clawing out chunks of flesh. Arrow hesitated. "Just do it, please! It hurts!"

Arrow turned and bolted past the sinister temple statues and out the door. Only she emerged not on the temple steps but on the streets of Baldur's Gate. It took her a moment to recall the significance of this place. The crowds were gone. The noose and the scaffold long since removed. Yet this was the square where Eric had died. If Freya or Sarevok knew this then they did not care. They were mid-conversation when the Hooded Man, alongside poor puppet-like Imoen, rematerialized.

"Are we one and the same my sister? One soul in two bodies, born of the Lord of Murder?" asked Sarevok. Freya looked him up and down and cocked her great golden head to one side.

"Seems unlikely," she said flatly.

"We will never end. We will never be parted, you and I. Not even in death!" Sarevok threatened. "We are the lake, divided into droplets, but as the rains fall the droplets will once more become the lake."

"You're right," growled Freya. "Not even death can get in the way of your long, boring speeches. Are we done here? Can I wake up now?"

"We were one before," said Sarevok, ignoring her. "And we _will_ be one again."

Freya marched over to the Hooded Man and spoke to him directly. Arrow was impressed, she knew how frightened her sister was of him. More so, even than she was. Clearly, though, her display was entirely bravado. The werewolf was so petrified of her magical stalker that she had slept in full armour every night for months on end.

"Ok, so you've found a way to hijack our dreams," Freya said, clapping her large hands sarcastically. "But obviously that's all you can do, or you'd be screwing with our heads already. You can't hurt us, you're just trying to scare us. Well, I was already scared of you, so good luck with that."

The Hooded Man made no reply. Freya made an irritated noise then, just for the sake of it, drew her sword and sliced the wizard down the middle. Her blade passed harmlessly through him, just as Arrow's shot had done.

"Foolish child!" the Hooded Man chided her. "You understand none of this, do you?"

Arrow shivered. The subterranean temple had been very cold, but there was another unnatural chill to this place. The lingering stench of the bodies was making her gag and she could still feel the creepy eyes of the temple statues upon her and yet… and yet there was something familiar about thar place. It felt almost like home. Her father's symbol, the ringed skull, was etched into the floor. Rather than repulsing or frightening her it imbued her with a sort of courage. This was disturbing in its own right, but following her sister's example she swallowed her own fear. The ranger turned to the ghost of Sarevok.

"I have a question," said Arowan.

Sarevok's golden glowing eyes swivelled under his helm to fix on her.

"You are not on a par with me nor your sister," he told her bluntly. "I killed dozens like you, barely lifting a finger. Nevertheless you are one of us, a droplet waiting to return to the lake, and I will hear your question. Ask."

"What is the point of phrasing things in such a cryptic way?" Arrow asked bluntly. Sarevok raised his visor and frowned at her. The face underneath was far more human than the terrifying apparition who had slain Gorion. "I mean what exactly is it you're trying to achieve? Either you have something to say to us or you don't. If you want us to understand you speak plainly. If you don't, then why bother showing up at all?"

"The reason I am here, my feeble little sister," replied Sarevok. "Is that Irenicus facilitated my speaking to you. Waiting around in the abyss is incredibly tedious. There really isn't a lot down there except Cespenar and those of us who are waiting. I do not speak plainly because it would not be in my interests… or yours… for Irenicus to understand me. But I accepted his invitation to visit you anyway because I was indescribably bored."

"Well that's… ok," shrugged Arrow. "Can't argue with that I suppose. What can we do to entertain you? A song perhaps? Maybe we could dance a jig, oh spectral thrill-seeker?"

"Actually," Sarevok smiled at her malevolently, "I was thinking of a rematch."

"Rematch? What are you talking about? Oh, shit! FREYA HEL-" Arrow's scream was cut off abruptly as Sarevok's ghostly sword slashed through her neck. There was a split second of pain, agony beyond anything she had ever experienced except perhaps when she had felt the Hooded Man torturing Eric. Then her head was falling too fast. The cobblestones rushed up to meet her and everything went dark.

Arrow's eyes shot open and she felt the cool morning air on her face. With a panicked scream she jerked up in her sleeping bag, hands flying to her neck. To her immense relief it was still attached to her body. Her eyes darted left and right about the camp. People were staring at her, and sweat was pouring down her face. She had died, horribly, but it was just a dream.

No. Not just a dream. Freya was thrashing around in her bedroll, making slashing motions with her arms. This was a Bhaalspawn vision and her sister was still locked in it, battling Sarevok's shade. Arrow was fingering her neck gingerly, but as she watched Freya, she remembered a small detail from the vision that was quite reassuring.

Sarevok had said that the Abyss was ' _boring'._ Not a hell of excruciating eternal torture as she had assumed and feared. Merely a bit dull. And he had said that he was waiting, which implied that there was something to wait for. If the Hooded Man understanding him was 'not in his interests' that meant that he still had interests. Her brother had alleviated a terror that she had been trying not to think about. Intentionally or not, he had done she and Freya a kindness.

" _Thanks Sarevok,"_ she thought, in case the deceased Bhaalspawn was still lurking somewhere in her brain. Meanwhile, her sister was waking up.

"Ha, HA!" cried Freya, sitting bolt upright and raising her arms in victory. "Got you again, you bastard!"

Arrow glared at her, though everybody else just looked confused. Freya opened her eyes, glanced around the camp, realised she was awake and behaving oddly, and looked a little sheepish. She got up, mumbling something about a strange dream and scooted down next to her sister. As far as Arrow was concerned, Freya looked far too happy about getting to slay her brother a second time.

"You had the same dream I did, right?" Freya whispered. Arrow nodded. "Damn. I was hoping it might just be a regular nightmare. Mind you, slicing up that scumbag again was pretty satisfying. Right-blade straight through the torso this time. I went for the join under his breast plate and… you don't want to know do you?"

Freya grinned at Arrow, who was giving her a look.

"Anyway I guess our hunter has a name now, _Irenicus,_ and he's found a way to get into our minds." Freya paused. "I don't like that. How do you reckon he's doing it? He can't have been in the camp, we have wards set up like you wouldn't believe. That's how I knew Edwin was skulking around before."

"Well if he didn't break in through my head," said Arrow slowly, "And he didn't get in through you..."

"Imoen!" Freya turned pale. She seized a random passing officer by the arm, making him spill his morning porridge. "Pass the word for the quartermaster, we have an urgent message for Baldur's Gate! Damnation! We should never have left her alone!"

Arrow massaged her neck where Sarevok had cut it open in the dream. Her veins pulsed with guilt and worry. Who knew what the Hooded Man was doing to Imoen to break into her mind like that? Whatever it was he was hurting her, she was certain of it. Imoen had been begging her to appease him. Was she even still in Baldur's Gate, and if she was would Irenicus let her leave to join them? Maybe that was even the wizards' plan. To take Imoen captive and use her as bait. She put this to Freya.

"Yeah. I thought that too," sighed the werewolf, massaging her temples. "That he'd take Imoen or Coran and try torturing them until I give myself up to him." There was a long silence. Then Freya said, very assertively, "No."

"But-" Arrow began.

"No," the Hero of Baldur's Gate repeated steadily. "Not for Immy, not for Coran, not for you. I'm one of the most powerful people in the city now Arrow, and that comes with a price. You think this is the first time someone has tried to blackmail me? The minute you start negotiating with them you may as well go throw yourself from the nearest rooftop."

"Coward," spat Arowan.

"Yeah," nodded Freya honestly. "Probably a bit of that too. But you avoided sleeping when Irenicus was torturing Eric. You didn't see as much as I did. You didn't _feel_ as much. If you had, you might not be in such a hurry to martyr yourself."

She looked at Arrow, whose lip was curling with disgust. This time it was Freya's turn to lose her temper.

"And once again, my perfect sister gets to keep the moral high-ground, with no consequences!" Freya snarled. "You could pretend to want Eric freed, knowing he wouldn't hurt anyone else because I'd have him executed anyway. You could give all your money to the beggars, and not have to worry about your own food and board because I was taking care of it. Now you can sacrifice yourself for Imoen, without _actually_ having to suffer any torture, safe in the knowledge that I won't let you go. Enjoy your clean conscience. Enjoy the luxury of keeping it pure, because I'm here to make the hard decisions that you're too weak to take. Fucking Ilmatari!"

Arrow glared moodily around the camp. Some of the soldiers were still sleeping, but most were getting up and wandering over to the great communal porridge pots bubbling away for breakfast. Some of them had lit little fires of their own and were brewing coffee. A few bedrolls away, Minsc was trying to feed Boo porridge from a tiny hamster-sized spoon, but the rodent did not seem to be taking to it. She could not see Viconia. The cleric was sleeping under canvas and had not yet emerged. Despite the heat, the drow was making the effort to pitch her tent again. Or, more accurately, she was forcing Edwin to do it for her.

None of their allies seemed too concerned by the Bhaalspawn dreams. They had spent enough time with them to be used to it by now. Even Corwin and Duke Silvershield had noticed Freya's nightmares while she had been their guest in the Ducal Palace. Nobody seemed bothered except for Rasaad. He was sitting up shirtless in his bedroll, watching Arrow with an expression of deep concern. She ground her teeth and tried to avoid eye contact, but she could see in the corner of her vision that he was getting up anyway.

"Morning Rasaad!" beamed Freya, cheerfully. Arrow wanted to throttle her, but it would be unwise to vent the urge. The werewolf was orders of magnitude more powerful than she was, and practised against stronger foes. She risked a glance over, and saw that Rasaad had neglected to put on his shirt. It had been a while since she had seen the swirling tattoos around his arms and chest and they had moved a bit. To make way for expanding muscle. Her pulse quickened as he came over and she felt herself starting to flush. The more she wanted not to, the less she seemed able to help it.

To her astonishment, Freya was eyeing up his muscles too, with a pleased expression.

" _What the devil?"_ Arrow thought, her scowl deepening.

Rasaad swallowed nervously. He could tell that Arrow was angry with him, though he did not see why she should be quite this livid. He had declined her earlier request to join her as gently as he could and had come back in the end. Perhaps she was still upset about how their romance had ended, but that had been entirely her doing and not his. If she had not hidden Gamaz's numbing potions from him! Anger bubbled up inside him again, but it was growing weaker over time. He looked from Arrow to Freya, who was swigging something out of her personal hip flask that he could only hope was water.

"Pardon me," he ventured, "But are you two alright?"

"I was until you came over!" Arrow snapped, and promptly got up to get herself some breakfast. She had not eaten since yesterday lunchtime, having given all her dinner to Yoshimo's refugees, and she was starving.

"Bloody hell!" remarked Freya, taking another swig. "She could give Safana a run for her money, she's that pissed off. What in the nine hells did you do?"

Rasaad slumped down dejectedly in the space that Arrow had just been occupying and looked at his hands. He felt like an idiot. He badly wanted to talk to her, and work out just what had been going on in her head when she decided not to tell him about Gamaz's addiction. Having such an intimate discussion seemed impossible though, when she would not even allow him to greet her 'good morning.'

"I do not know," he replied sadly.

Arrow was not the only one who was feeling hungry. Viconia woke up in her tent, stretched luxuriantly, and roused her sleeping wizard with a sharp kick. Edwin moaned. He was fully dressed, Viconia insisted on that, and forced him to sleep curled up at her feet. At one point in the night he had woken to find both her and three of his scrolls missing. Only when she returned after he spent minutes frantically searching the tent for them, did he realise that the evil cleric had taken them to use as latrine paper.

"Male!" she commanded domineeringly. "Fetch me my breakfast!"

"Enough!" snarled Edwin, scrambling to all fours. "I am done with this game, you bestial woman! I will sleep somewhere else and you will leave me alone!"

He watched, appalled, as Viconia licked her fingers and dipped them into the dirt beneath her bed roll. She put the tiniest dab on the edge of each eye and at once they welled with convincing floods of tears.

"Oh Freya!" she whispered in a mock-wail. "Edwin doesn't love me after all! He only came to murder Dynaheir and he just this minute asked me to help him do it! I knew I had to come straight to you. I'm so sorry, I really thought he cared for me!"

"You are a detestable serpent Viconia," Edwin snarled. "Perhaps I should use Soultaker on you instead!"

"I don't think my furry friend next door will like that," smirked Viconia, twirling a strand of silver hair seductively around her finger.

"She won't be able to prove I did it!" retorted Edwin.

"You think she'll need proof?" Viconia scoffed. Though she insisted that Edwin keep his clothes on, she was not extending him the same respect. She ran her hands over her naked body, hovering suggestively at the patch of silver curls between her thighs. "Oh, but Freya, if you execute Edwin who is going to… take care of me?" she smiled sweetly. "Unless of course you'd like to do the honours yourself? Well in that case, I suppose we don't need Edwin alive do we?"

"FINE!" exploded Edwin, getting to his feet. "I am going to fetch your breakfast! See me going to get your breakfast?"

"Thank you, honey-dumpling!" trilled Viconia sarcastically.

"This will not do Odesseiron," Edwin fretted. "How is one to escape the clutches of this rapacious fiend?"

He scrambled from the tent, muttering a stream of expletive ridden curses. Viconia squeaked with laughter and snuggled back into her comfortable bedroll. This was just too much fun! She reached lazily for his pack and rooted through it. To her delight she found a stash of crystalized fruits in a side pocket and a few dried biscuits. The drow munched them quickly, rubbing her little elfin hands with glee. Imagine Edwin's face when he returned with the porridge, and she told him she wasn't hungry after all!

"Oh Edwin," she snickered to herself, "You may not have much competence as a lover, but you make an exemplary slave!"


	12. The Servant of all Faiths

The wait for Imoen's arrival was nerve wracking, with them not knowing whether or not she was now Irenicus' prisoner. It was made worse by the fact that Arrow was no longer entirely confident that she was not a prisoner herself. In fairness, Freya had a legitimate reason to keep her sister out of the Hooded Man's hands. Ever since Gorion had forged Imoen out of fragments of their souls, the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn had shared a connection. In their dreams they saw violent events in their sibling's lives. This was how Arrow and Freya knew that the others had perished. When Irenicus had experimented on one of them in Baeloth's Pits they had been able to feel the pain as though he were torturing them too.

Perhaps this was part of the reason that Freya had been so determined to see Eric hang for his crimes, Arrow speculated. So that the pain Irenicus inflicted through him would be ended permanently. It was certainly her motivation for wanting to keep Arrow out of his hands. Torturing Arrow amounted to nearly the same thing as torturing Freya herself. The ranger ran her hand through her choppy brown hair and sighed irritably. Before this wizard started stalking them, she had been so close to taking up a nice, useful position as a ranger in the Cloud Peak mountains. Now she had to hang on to the coat tails of the magnificent Hero of Baldur's Gate just to stay alive.

She sighed and gazed back down the path, listening for the gallop of hooves bringing Imoen back to them. It was not only her sister she feared for. Arrow had heard nothing from Khalid and Jaheira since leaving Baldur's Gate. Her adopted parents had been sent North by the Harpers, and from their carefully worded letters she gathered that it had to do with Caelar's crusade. At the time it had not sounded so terrible, but the more fallout she saw from the violence, the heavier her concern grew.

More displaced victims from the crusade were swarming toward the safety of Baldur's Gate. She scanned their faces in case the half-elves were among them but there was no sign. None of them had heard of Khalid or Jaheira when she asked. They all repeated various versions of having lost their lands, homes and sometimes even family to Caelar's troops. Yet in spite of this there was an even split between those who revered and reviled her, with many insisting that she was a long-prophesized saviour of Faerun. A servant of all gods.

Arrow managed to glean a snippet of information later, when they paused for lunch. A huddle of refugees passed by their clearing and she ran from the party to greet them. They had, in fact, seen a couple; a stuttering man and a highly aggressive woman not far away. Apparently they were hunting undead. The female vampire hunter had been so hostile that the refugees had not lingered long enough to get a good look. That sounded like Jaheira, though they also said that the stuttering man was a mage. Still, it gave her hope. Then they too had started to wax lyrical about the 'servant of all gods,' prompting the ranger to politely excuse herself.

"Why would they think that?" Arrow asked Glint and Dynaheir, as she settled back by the campfire. "Surely it isn't even possible to do the work of all gods at once?"

"Indeed," agreed Rasaad. "One could not simultaneously do the work of Selune and Shar."

"I was asking Dynaheir, not you," Arrow snapped.

Rasaad flinched, but Arrow refused to allow herself to feel sorry for him. If she felt nothing for him there would be no need to drive him away, but as it was her thoughts drifted to him every time she lay down to sleep at night. Still the humidity, buzzing flies and relentless heat made it easy to be short-tempered with him. Sooner or later he would have to give up and go away.

"Thou wouldst imagine not," Dynaheir said thoughtfully, "And yet prophecies have been made which would suggest differently. I have heard that there are some who claim that Shar and Selune are even different faces of the same twofold goddess."

"Filthy rivvil!" cried Viconia in outrage, "How dare you suggest that Shar and her anaemic weakling sister are the same?"

"Selune shines the light of mercy and compassion upon our world!" Rasaad interjected. He was slower to anger but, in truth, equally offended by the notion. "To suggest that she and the foul, hateful night whisperer are one is-"

"I meant no offense," said Dynaheir, haughtily. "I have no opinion on such matters, I merely relay what the people are saying."

"What prophecies?" asked Arrow, in an attempt to change the subject. She had seen enough of the simmering tension between Viconia and Rasaad the last time they had all travelled together. She did not require an encore. "By whom?"

"By many people," replied Corwin. "Inside the city and out. Everyone knows about the prophecies; they've been going on for years. Clerics claiming to have visions of a 'chosen woman' whose destiny it is to serve the will of _all_ gods. They say that she will save the land from a great evil. Of course, like most prophecies it is conveniently vague on any useful details. Such as what form the evil will take."

One of the soldiers was going from campfire to campfire doling out the meal of the day. This time it was a hot, steaming stew. His partner followed behind distributing bread rolls and water rations. As they made distance from the city, the quality of the food was slowly dropping. The rolls had gone from over-crunchy to undeniably stale and nobody was quite sure what creature the meaty lumps in the stew had originated from. Still, it wasn't disgusting and the two parties filled their bellies without overthinking it.

"If this prophesized evil is an evil, won't the evil gods be against defeating it?" puzzled Minsc, slurping his stew loudly. His moral sorting-system tended to categorize everyone very simply into whether or not their butts required a kicking. It did not often occur to him that there were subdivisions and factions amongst those worthy to receive his boot.

"Apparently not," shrugged Corwin. The Rashemen were no longer part of Freya's party and had not been involved in the two women's disagreement. Nevertheless, Corwin seemed to have judged Minsc and Dynaheir guilty by association. She was often rather short and dismissive with them, though so far her disdain had not been reciprocated.

"That suggests that the prophecy refers to a power outside of the gods' remit," suggested Dynaheir. "A demon perhaps?"

"Maybe, maybe not," replied the Captain indifferently. "Maybe the clerics were just making it up for a bit of attention. Doesn't matter. What matters is that lots of people believe that Caelar is this chosen one, this 'servant of all gods.'"

"I definitely don't think they're making it up," piped Glint. "In fact I myself-"

"Do not speak to me, gnome!" Corwin cut him off sharply. "I know all about you, and if I were Duke Silvershield I would have had you and your mother hanged!"

"And with that I think I will take my leave," squeaked Glint. The gnome jumped to his feet and bowed to the party, spilling stew on his shoes in his haste. He scurried away, glancing back nervously over his shoulder at Corwin. The captain folded her arms and made a satisfied noise.

"What do you know about him?" Arrow asked, intrigued. "He seems harmless enough."

"He 'seems' harmless alright," replied Corwin darkly. "But he and his friends peddle ideas. Dangerous ideas."

"Ideas are not dangerous," cut in Minsc. "Swords are dangerous. Hamsters are dangerous. Stinging nettles in the dark when you are looking for something to wipe your posterior on are very dangerous indeed. But ideas? No. Definitely not dangerous."

"The gnome's are," insisted Corwin. "He's part of a group who want to overthrow the Council. Instead of the nobility choosing them they think every illiterate beggar on the street should get a vote. Even people who weren't even born in Baldur's Gate. Our leaders would be chosen by the werewolf and that dirty drow if he had his way!"

Arrow felt it prudent not to reply to this, but she mused on it. They resumed the seemingly endless march forward, but as the day wore on the temperature mercifully dipped. The road petered out into long grass and she kicked off her boots and slung them around her neck. The cool green blades between her toes felt soothing after the long days walking in the heat.

To everyone's immense relief they made camp early that afternoon. The bridge lay a short distance ahead and beyond that was crusader territory. Scouts were sent out and for the first time, thanks to the drop in temperature, proper tents were being erected. Viconia idly watched Minsc construct Dynaheir's tent while Edwin struggled with her own. The Rashemen woman had a more effective slave, and quite a large one, though his simple mind detracted significantly from his attractiveness. She found herself, not for the first time, speculating on the nature of the witch's relationship with him.

Rasaad and Freya, working as a unit, had already constructed their own tents, Glint's and Safana's. Since Arrow had rejected their assistance (quite forcefully) they were helping the tired soldiers with theirs. Viconia noticed, with puzzled curiosity, that the werewolf was taking more interest than seemed normal in the Moon Monk. She was sure she wasn't just imagining it. Freya was quite definitely checking out Rasaad's muscles in an evaluating sort of way. Strange.

The drow shrugged to herself. Perhaps their demonstrably gay Hero had some latent interest in males after all? If she did then Rasaad would surely bring it out. Viconia watched him holding up a pair of tent poles appreciatively while Freya, who was slightly taller, bound them at the top. Viconia had taken an interest when they first met but he had been involved with Arowan, whose shelter she had needed. Now he was unattached and her rival was her enemy. Perhaps it was time to revisit this. Or not.

She watched as the Selunite pair put up the last of the tents and ambled toward the campfire. His torso, coated with a light layer of sweat from his exertions was gleaming, highlighting the muscle. To Viconia's astonishment even Freya had her hands on his bicep, admiring its size. Her Sunny Soul was definitely starting to flush. The drow scowled disappointedly. If her party leader wanted him then, once again, she found herself obliged to concede defeat. Freya was, as females went, incredibly attractive and under other circumstances Viconia might have compromised by inviting them both to share her bedroll. It seemed unlikely, however, that the shy virginal monk could even hear such a suggestion without having to perform some sort of purification ritual afterward.

"Camp's set!" declared Corwin. "Watches too. We've been marching hard, covered a lot of ground, but there's still a ways to go. Everyone could use a rest, yourself included Freya. Tonight might be the last full night's sleep we get. We'll be in crusader territory after we cross the bridge."

"Fucking finally!" Freya said. "But I'm heading up the road a way. I don't want any surprises before we cross the winding water. Viconia, Edwin, Rasaad let's move out… Safana are you coming?"

The thief shrugged in a non-committal sort of way and slunk lazily into line. Her pretty, angular face was a picture of apathy. She seemed to have stopped fingering her dagger every time she looked in the werewolf's direction though. That had to be a step forward.

"Mind if I join you?" asked Corwin, unexpectedly. "I do better in the city than the woods, but perhaps I can help, and maybe learn a thing or two. Bence can take care of the camp."

"Learn something? From me?" laughed Freya. Then she licked the rim of her private hip-flask suggestively. "Then again, maybe you can."

"Arsehole," muttered Corwin. "So much for trying to be polite. I'm not really asking, I'm telling. Duke Silvershield tasked me with keeping you safe. If you're going so am I."

Freya, who at six-foot-three towered over the other woman, practically howled with laughter at the notion that she might need her protection. Corwin glared at her. Her scarred face evidenced that she was far from inexperienced when it came to combat, but Freya had more strength in one arm than the captain did in her entire body. The patronizing way that the werewolf was looking at her made her want to break the golden warrior's pretty nose.

"Alright Corwin," Freya grinned. "Come along and 'protect me'. And if you change your mind about wanting to 'learn a thing or two' from me, you just let me know."

Rasaad grimaced at Freya's disrespectful remark, while Edwin suggested that Corwin would do better to learn from the tongue of a skilled Red Wizard than that of a slobbering mutt. Safana was looking sulky. Her dislike of the Flaming Fist in general, and Corwin in particular, rivalled even her fury with Freya. Viconia, however, objected to their new recruit in undiplomatic terms.

"We allow this Flaming Fist harridan to accompany us?" the cleric protested sharply. "We might as well scream our weakness to the wilds!"

Freya surveyed the surrounding woodlands indifferently. This hardly qualified as the wilds anymore. Their loud, trampling army had probably scared off anything wild within half a mile, and she did not intend to venture out farther than that. Should Irenicus confront her, she wanted to be close enough to fight her way back to the army before he managed to take her down.

"You think the Fist is weak?" Corwin asked Viconia, threateningly.

"It must be if you're the best it has to offer, _Captain,_ " sneered Viconia, edging toward Freya.

"You're not being fair to the Fist, Viconia!" Freya winked. "Captain Corwin didn't get to her lofty rank by being the best."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" snapped Corwin.

"I think what she means," said Safana silkily, "Is that the Duke has very shiny boots… and you have a very sore tongue."

Captain Corwin swelled with rage, though some of the soldiers close enough to hear the conversation nodded emphatically at this statement. A pleasant cool breeze picked up, catching Freya's hair and causing it to billow out behind her. She smiled dazzlingly at her commanding officer, causing her already red face to turn scarlet.

"Is that right?" Corwin demanded of Freya. "You think the only reason I got this job is through brown nosing?"

"Is that a serious question?" Freya goggled in disbelief. In order to learn to control her transformations the werewolf had been half-raised by Selunite therapists. As a result, she made a habit of psychoanalysing herself and other people. It was incomprehensible to her that anyone could be as lacking in self-awareness as this woman seemed to be. "Captain, I wouldn't say you're brown nosing the Duke. You are way beyond that! At this point you are practically peering out of his mouth. Every time he speaks, I see your face!"

Corwin slapped her. Not a light little smack of disapproval. This was a full belt across the jaw with the gauntlet-covered back of her hand. Freya reeled backward, then stood up slowly, massaging her jaw. She ran her fingers back through her pretty golden hair and flashed her perfect white teeth at Corwin in a winning smile.

The surrounding soldiers exchanged confused looks. If Captain Corwin and the Hero of Baldur's Gate got into a fight, exactly whose side were they supposed to be on? Viconia and Safana looked on eagerly, itching for Freya to attack back, but Dynaheir looked worried. The werewolf had the physical capability of turning Corwin into something resembling their lunchtime stew in about five minutes flat. But if she did, then what? Freya did not make any attempt to defend herself physically, however. Instead she used words to goad Corwin further.

"You know I doubt the Duke even needs to buy latrine paper," Freya quipped, "With you around to slurp his bottom."

Corwin struck her again with the other hand, her eyes blazing with anger. Her normally neat hair had escaped and was hanging about her face. Minsc leaned forward into Arrow's ear and asked her if they shouldn't do something, but the ranger shook her head. It was none of their business and she was finding this mildly entertaining. The werewolf's lip was now bleeding but she was still showing no inclination to fight back. She leaned forward to Corwin and whispered something only the captain could hear.

Whatever it was, it was bad. Officer Corwin bellowed like an enraged bull, and slammed Freya bodily in the chest with both hands, knocking her backward. Before Freya could rise to her feet, Corwin pounced and straddled her, raising a clenched fist. The werewolf grinned at her insubordinately and the captain paused. An expression of comprehension dawned over her face. If possible she looked even angrier, but now it was tinged with horror. When she spoke it was in a low voice so that apart from Freya, only Viconia and Rasaad who were standing nearest, could hear her.

"You're getting off on this!" Corwin hissed at the werewolf, aghast. "You disgusting bitch."

"Say it again," begged Freya, only half joking. Corwin stood up hastily, brushing herself off. As she did so, a nervous looking young officer scurried over to her and whispered hastily in her ear. Corwin's expression changed from one of fury to alarm. Her jaw stiffened and she nodded at the messenger. Then she turned to the party.

"The six of us should investigate down the path before we scout ahead," the captain instructed, gruffly. "Two of our lads have turned up dead. Puncture marks to the neck and not a drop of blood in their bodies. There's a vampire tailing us."

"Then we'd best get rid of it," replied Freya, loudly. "What were the names of the two officers?" There was an uncomfortable pause. "You didn't bother to ask. Of course not. Fine. Let's get moving then."

"Your enthusiasm is contagious Freya," drawled Safana sarcastically. Freya looked at her and half-smiled. Then the pair of them followed Corwin who was already striding away.

"Come, male," Viconia commanded Edwin.

The Red Wizard scuttled obediently along behind her. Poor Edwin was looking increasingly cowed, and his mumbled threats were becoming less frequent. The drow had a great deal of experience when it came to bending males to her will. Even Edwin's immense ego was starting to show signs of crumbling under the heel of his mistress's boot. Rasaad glanced over to where Arrow was sitting with Minsc and Dynaheir. For a split second he caught her eye, but she seemed to take a sudden intense interest in polishing her boots and it was clear that she did not mean to join them. Minsc looked highly disappointed to be missing out on a vampire hunt, but Dynaheir was also digging in her heels. Understandable, since Edwin and Viconia had recently tried to assassinate her.

Viconia, the Sharran cleric, and his former travelling companion. This camp was so large, and Rasaad had been so preoccupied with Arrow, that up until now he had not really considered that joining Freya's party meant once again travelling with her. The pair of them had a colourful (and to the Sun Soul Monk deeply embarrassing) history that he would prefer to forget. Memories flashed through his mind of plunging himself into an ice-cold lake after she stripped in front of him, and that wasn't the worst of it. Spilling his heart out to her under the influence of a charm spell… Viconia tempting him to join his brother in the worship of Shar… Not to mention that incident with the succubus... Rasaad flinched and looked away from her.

The drow noticed, and shooed Edwin away with a dismissive little wave of her hand. The events of the Iron Crisis had changed the monk and not, in her opinion, for the better. Well, admittedly in _one way_ for the better. He had obviously been putting more effort into the physical elements of his monastic philosophy, and while he was hardly a gangling teen before his body was hitting its twenties with a vengeance. He had gained in size in a most pleasing way, but he had lost something too. These days he walked with a slump and though he tried to be cheerful when spoken to, his face settled into a weak, distant expression when he wasn't concentrating.

"It seems our paths align once more," Viconia remarked, falling into step with him. Rasaad turned his dark eyes to her, his face unreadable. "I wanted to apologise."

"For what?" Rasaad blinked in surprise.

"We both know it is a long list," Viconia replied carefully. She was treading lightly. Getting on with Rasaad would likely be critical to her success in this group. More than that, she didn't like the idea of him disliking her. He was the only surfacer who had ever shown her consistent kindness, and while she could not respect that sort of weakness, she was fond of him. The monk nodded and sighed.

"I too have much to apologise for Viconia," he sighed. He met her mistrustful, scarlet eyes. There was no denying that she was an evil servant of a wicked goddess and yet he sensed that a sincere apology was a great concession coming from her. This was as close to opening herself as she was ever likely to get. If there was a time to address the elephant in the room, this was it. He took a deep breath and asked the question. "Why did you try to kill Arrow? After everything she did for you?"

"Survival," Viconia replied simply. "What better reason could there be?"

"That wasn't all of it," he said.

"Fine. I detest her," spat Viconia. "She is weak in body and character. She spares her enemies and squanders her resources on other ungrateful weaklings, like herself. Arowan doesn't deserve to survive. She is not fit for existence and yet because her skin is the right colour she persists! Had she been born in the Underdark she would never have reached her teens!"

"You're not in the Underdark anymore," Rasaad replied. "Perhaps you should make more of an effort to adapt to the surface world's ways."

"And if I did, what would it benefit me?" Viconia asked him bitterly. "My eyes are red, my hair is silver, I am drow. Nothing I do will change how surfacers see me."

"You are wrong Viconia," replied Rasaad. "In the end it is our actions that define us, and not the colour of our skin."

Viconia responded to this by kicking a rock down the trail. It was a heavy rock and she had small feet so it did not really go very far. Mostly all she succeeded in doing was raising a small shower of fallen leaves and covering her boot with mulch. It stirred up a sweet decomposing smell, and ahead of them Freya stopped for a moment and sniffed appreciatively, before Safana yanked her impatiently by the collar to get her to keep moving.

"Naive male!" Viconia snarled. Then she deflated a bit and said, regretfully, "It gives you comfort to believe that, Rasaad, but my longer life has taught me differently. I am a drow and the majority of people will judge me by that, and that alone. It was a painful lesson, but I have learnt it well."

Rasaad did not know how to respond to this. He was no longer as confident as he used to be that she was wrong. She hardly bent over backward to try to assimilate and yet he had seen enough of how the people they met spoke to her to understand that her life would never be easy. He felt as though he ought to say something though.

"You called me by my name!" he exclaimed. Viconia looked at him quizzically, and he elaborated. "You called me Rasaad, not 'male' or 'moon monk,' or 'sunny soul' or 'foolish rivvil.'"

To his astonishment Viconia actually smiled. Not a condescending sneer or a gloating chuckle, but a genuine warm smile. He smiled back tentatively, and they walked on in silence.

Suddenly and without warning an armoured woman and a wizard sprang out of the bushes. Had Corwin not been quick to respond, this would have proven a fatal mistake on their part. Freya, who was extremely jumpy about the Hooded Man this far from camp, immediately drew both swords. The captain threw herself between the two women, wincing as Freya's bastard blades closed in on her neck, stopping just in time with a metallic whistle.

"Halt there!" the strange woman screamed, brandishing her sword in one hand and a mismatched fistful of holy symbols from different faiths in the other. "Are you alive or dead?"

"I- Isabella please! They're clearly alive!" cried the wizard accompanying her. The woman lowered her sword but her stance remained aggressive. Her partner wrung his fingers nervously, looking apologetic.

"Who do those two remind you of?" Viconia whispered to Rasaad. The monk fought to suppress a smile.

"Hmm, we'll see," replied Isabella. She was eyeing up the werewolf with a suspicious expression. "What is your business here?"

"Are you followers of the Shining Lady? Are you working for Irenicus?" barked Freya, leaning around Corwin like a guard dog trying to bypass her trainer.

"Crusaders?" Isabella spat. Close up, she looked surprisingly young, that helm was hiding teen spots. Ikros, who was dithering behind her, seemed to be no more than fifteen years old if Rasaad was any judge. But what Isabella lacked in years she made up for in raw conviction. "Bah! Do we look like we have nothing better to do than fan a mad woman's ego?"

"I have better things to do than fan a mad woman's ego," replied Corwin with a resentful glance at Freya, "But it seems to be my job these days anyway."

"The work Ikros and I do has actual value," said Isabella. "Right now we hunt a vicious undead creature. A vampire! Keep out of our way!"

"P- please Isabella, there's no need to be r- rude!" pleaded Ikros. Viconia and Rasaad, who had both travelled with Khalid and Jaheira caught each other's eyes and spluttered.

"Well there's a coincidence," said Freya, finally sheathing her swords. "We're looking for a vampire too. Well done for finding it kids, but we'll take it from here. Just point the way!"

"We have the vampire cornered!" Isabella boasted. "He's riddled the path with traps so we can't get to him, but by the same token his only way out is through us. We expect him to arrive at any moment. You ready for a fight?"

Freya grinned and winked at her. "Bring it!"

"Come out fiend!" screamed Isabella righteously. "Your days of slaughtering innocents are over!"

There was a rustle in the trees and a vampire emerged. He was a bit of a let-down in Freya's opinion, a tired tweed-wearing man who looked as though he had been in late middle-age when he was bitten. Though fanged and unnaturally pale, he gave off more of a harassed-professor vibe than that of a prince of darkness.

"Ah, hunters. More of you this time," sighed the vampire. "And that one there, she's agreed to kill me without so much as knowing my name?"

"Did you know the names of the soldiers you ate earlier? Don't feel bad if you don't," said Freya, gesturing at Corwin, "Their own commanding officer doesn't know their names either."

"I didn't kill any soldiers!" said the vampire. "Listen to me, my name is Tsolak. The local farmers all ran from the crusade but if you go to the city and ask them they'll tell you-"

"Our lads were found drained of blood with puncture wounds in their necks," interrupted Corwin. "It was a vampire, cert and sure."

"It may well have been, but it wasn't me!" Tsolak insisted. "I have fed only off animals for centuries, the people here, they know me! Their families have known me for generations."

"Perhaps we should listen to him," ventured Edwin, who knew full well that the vampire stalking them was Bodhi.

"Enough talk!" shrieked Isabella. "Kill the monster, now!"

Freya drew her twin bastard swords that she wore strapped to her back and she and Rasaad charged forward. An arrow from Corwin sailed past them and struck the vampire first. She was not as good a shot as Arowan, but she was much better equipped. Tsolak wailed as it buried itself deep into his shoulder. As the two warriors fought the vampire, shadowy wolf-like creatures emerged from the shadows to come to its aid. Safana swore and drew her dagger, while Viconia made an ineffective attempt to turn undead. Edwin, however, had come across creatures like this before and he sent a huge fireball raging into the trees.

"No, you idiot!" screeched Isabella, as the flames licked the bone-dry timbers. Smouldering embers twinkled threateningly in the branches and a crackling noise could be heard above. "You'll start a forest fire. Ikros!"

Soon she and her mage companion were entirely preoccupied with containing Edwin's blazes. With every fireball, fresh sparks caught in the desiccated flora. The Red Wizard was making no effort to avoid this. As far as he was concerned his own survival was the first priority, and that meant destroying these fiends as swiftly as possible. Besides, if he were to start a huge fire and incinerate the camp, Dynaheir was still there and would fry along with it. Safana was fending off a wolf of her own (barely) while the Selunites were wholly focussed on Tsolak. Edwin shot his drow tormentor a sly glance and double checked that nobody else was watching. Then he threw a fireball at the wolf-creatures nearest to Viconia.

As he intended, the drow was caught in the blast. Flames erupted in front of her and the scent of singed meat added to the already smoky aroma. The drow threw up her arms to shield herself but when the orange glow subsided her leathers had fried away and her skin seemed to be melting. She collapsed, sobbing healing spells through her pain. Edwin, who had been hoping she might die, started to summon a second spell to finish the job, but it was too late. Rasaad abandoned the fight to tend to her, joined moments later by Freya.

The werewolf tipped her strongest healing potion down Viconia's neck and her wounds began to mend. Freya mopped her brow, sweating and panting. Destroying Tsolak had been a messy business. His undead flesh was too tough to sever his neck in a single blow. In the end it had taken five hacks, while Rasaad rained down punches, before he reverted to his gaseous form and floated away.

"I am sorry, I did not realise you were so close to the creatures," lied Edwin, scooting down next to Viconia, who had buried her face into Rasaad's chest. She looked up at him and hissed like a cat, her scarlet eyes flashing murderously. Edwin drummed his fingers together. Served her right for the past few days, and no lasting harm done. With any luck the little scorpion would leave him alone now. If she tried to accuse him of plotting against Dynaheir after this, he could say she was just getting revenge for the fireball accident. It wasn't as though she had a clean track record when it came to vengeful behaviour.

"Damn!" screeched Isabella. "The monster got away!"

"What are you on about?" bellowed Freya. "I chopped his head off!"

The Hero of Baldur's Gate could always silence a room with her charisma. She could often achieve it with her beauty. However, from time to time, Freya had been known to command stunned silence through harnessing the power of sheer stupidity. This was one of those times.

"He turned into gas, you dumb mutt!" Safana cried exasperatedly, after a long pause. "He's floated off somewhere dark and quiet to regenerate. He'll have a lair around here some place."

"He must have returned to his tomb," mused Isabella, hungrily. "It's somewhere down the path, we hadn't found it yet. Here, take this stake. If you can find Tsolak, run it through his heart."

"Yeah, yeah fine but hang on a tick," frowned Freya, taking the sharpened wooden spike from the vampire hunter's hand. "You're saying _all_ vampires can do this gas-thing?" Isabella nodded mutely, to which the werewolf replied; "Crap. That means there are _a lot_ of seriously pissed off vampires out there who I didn't kill properly. I'll pray to Selune they don't have guilds or conferences or anything because even I'd struggle to fight a hundred of the buggers at once."

"You… you had the chance to kill a hundred vampires…" Isabella gaped weakly, "And you let them regenerate?"

"Well come to think of it," Freya pondered, scratching her neck. "Some of those might actually have been the same vampires over and over again. I just thought that all undead looked alike."

"I… can't…" Isabella stuttered. For a moment it looked as though the teenage fanatic might actually burst into tears. Then she seemed to get a grip on herself and shouted furiously. "IKROS! We're leaving! I cannot deal with this level of stupidity. You!" She jabbed Safana in the chest. "You look like you have more than one braincell to rub together. Make sure she actually stakes this one!"

"I look smarter than Freya?" Safana drawled as the vampire hunters gathered their things and stormed away. "Well there's death by faint praise if ever I heard it. Let's get this over with. They said there were traps up ahead so I'd better take the lead." She overtook Freya and looked her disparagingly up and down. "One day I want to pitch you against Minsc in a word game or something. What an epic battle of wits that would be."

They followed a safe distance behind Safana, whose long delicate fingers unpicked the traps and snares as she went. Tsolak had been thorough but ironically the trail of pits and trip wires led them directly to the entrance to his cave. It was small and well concealed. Were it not for his other defences they might never have found it. Inside was a decaying stench and the loud buzzing of flies. Surrounding a closed coffin in the middle of the cave were various drained and rotting carcasses.

"He has been feeding on animals," Rasaad observed doubtfully. "Perhaps Tsolak was telling the truth."

"The villagers around here were all displaced by the crusade," pointed out Corwin. "There was nothing to eat but animals until we showed up. He's a vampire, that's what vampires do. Once we move on and there are no more officers to feed from, he'll start snacking on the refugees. Is that what you want?"

Rasaad sighed and shook his head. Yet as he watched Freya heave back the coffin lid, he could not help but think of Arowan, who would have handled this very differently. Tsolak lay inside, pale as death. His body was slowly mending itself but it would take some time before it was fully healed. Viconia took the stake from Freya, and opened his mouth, peeking inside curiously at his fangs.

"You know, I've often wondered what would happen if a werewolf bit a vampire," mused Viconia. "Or vice versa."

Rasaad shuffled uneasily. The coldness of the cave felt unnatural after the heat outside, and flies kept landing on him, crawling about his ears and nose. He waved them away but they kept returning. What Viconia was describing sounded uncomfortably like the sort of experiments Gamaz had liked to perform in his Sharran temple. The drow was also a follower of Shar, and he would not put it past her, given the opportunity, to put her gruesome speculation into practise.

"Huh," replied Freya, cocking her head to one side. Then she looked at Rasaad with a rare glint of cunning in her wolfish eyes. "I guess this is our chance to find out. He doesn't look very appetizing Viconia, but if it'd make you happy…" She finished the sentence on a snarling note as her head began to transform.

"Don't be a moron!" screeched Corwin. "What if you make it stronger?"

"An abomination unto Selune!" cried Rasaad. "What do you think you are doing?"

He flung himself at the werewolf, dragging her back from the vampire. Freya pulled her shoulder forward but the monk held her easily. Then she yanked forward again, harder and harder each time as though she were testing the limits of his strength. Finally she lashed out hard with her free paw, flinging Rasaad bodily against the wall of the cave. It looked as though it hurt a lot, but Viconia was impressed to see him immediately leap to his feet and body-tackle the werewolf back down. Out of the corner of her eye, Freya spotted Corwin reaching for an arrow, and hastily turned back into a human.

Suddenly, instead of a hairy canine beast, Rasaad found that he had a stunningly pretty woman pinned under him. He flushed red under his tattoos and started stammering something incoherent. Freya raised an eyebrow with an amused expression and looked down. He followed her grey eyes to his hand which was resting on her chest. He yelped in panic and withdrew it, only in his haste he forgot to prop himself up with something else, and collapsed on top of her.

"Oof!" said Freya, winded, as the party burst into laughter. Then she blinked, looked down further than before and started to choke with amusement. Something was pressing into her thigh that she was fairly confident wasn't a muscle.

"Well there's a sight I never thought I'd see," teased Safana. Rasaad backed off rapidly on all fours, apologising profusely. Viconia had a squeaking laugh when she really cracked up, it sounded a bit like a guinea-pig. Her ruby eyes were watering with tears of mirth and she clutched her ribs, doubled over.

"Good gods Rasaad!" guffawed Freya, hauling herself up by Corwin's arm. "I'm no expert…"

She gestured at the unfortunate Rasaad's hips and was too overcome with laughter to finish her sentence. Then she caught Corwin's eye, and saw that even the captain couldn't keep a straight face. She grinned and shook her head while she recovered enough to speak, pinching the bridge of her nose. Then Freya raised her hand for quiet and cleared her throat, forcing her voice to remain steady though the corners of her mouth were still twitching.

"Rasaad, the gods know I'm no fucking expert, but you might be wasted as a monk," she repeated, nodding toward Viconia and Safana. "Heads up to the straight girls in the party, you are missing out!"

_Squeak, squeak, squeak!_

Everyone turned to stare at Viconia. Now it was her astonishing laugh that had captured their attention, which was a mercy to Rasaad. She wiped her eyes (and nose) before finally staking Tsolak through the heart. The vampire shrieked and writhed in agony before collapsing in a pile of dust. Poor Viconia's ribs hurt, her jaw ached and Safana ended up having to half-carry her out of the cave. And yet, she suspected, life would be far more fun with Freya as party leader than it ever was under Jaheira.

As they returned, triumphant to camp, Viconia eyed her new leader. She could have sworn that Freya had baited Rasaad into wrestling her on purpose. It seemed improbable that even she was dim-witted enough to genuinely make a werewolf-vampire hybrid merely on a whim. It was not exactly as though she could blame her for wanting to test the moon monk's muscles. She might try a similar tactic herself later. But did this confirmed bachelorette really fancy him? It seemed so unlikely.

"What is she up to do you suppose?" Viconia mumbled to Safana.

"Oh, she just wants a replacement for Minsc and Boo," Safana began idly, but then broke off abruptly. Suddenly she was eyeing the drow with deep suspicion. "Why?"

"Minsc _and Boo_?" enquired Viconia, her mind racing. "I can picture uses for Minsc, but the hamster too? What exactly-?"

But Safana refused to be drawn any further on the subject. Viconia was not sure what she had said to draw the thief's mistrust, but she was sure she felt Safana's narrowed eyes burning into her very frequently from that point on.

Further up the path the werewolf was humming contentedly and swinging her swords. She wore a good-humoured open expression on her face. The sun was starting to set and a warm purple-pink glow lit up the sky. One successfully slaughtered vampire, and Rasaad had turned out to be every bit as strong as she had hoped. His wrestling match with the werewolf, Lon, in the Iron Throne building had been a good indicator but she was a lot larger. Now she had full confidence that the monk would make a fine full moon-buddy. It was a weight off her mind.

"I want to talk to you," said Corwin.

"About what?" Freya replied pleasantly.

"About that little speech you made before we left the gate," said Corwin, folding her arms.

Freya jumped up and slashed at an overhanging branch, sending it crashing down to the floor. She smiled and twirled her swords around skilfully, though she did not notice the unfortunate sparrow whose carefully constructed nest she had just sent crashing to its doom.

"Ah yes," replied Freya. "I wondered when you were going to get around to that."

"The Bitch of Baldur's Gate," recalled Corwin. Freya let out a cheeky bark in response. The captain nodded and went on; "It's a bold title. Not one I'm sure did your reputation much good."

"The people seemed to like it." Freya grinned. "They're scared of Caelar. It's comforting for them to know that they have something equally scary to send after her."

"My father has a saying. Words comfort but blood will tell," Corwin told her darkly.

Freya sheathed her swords behind her back and turned to face the other woman. Despite her best efforts, this wingless harpy had succeeded in spoiling her good mood. Blood! She had never asked to be a child of Bhaal, and she certainly hadn't asked to be bitten, but it was just as well for Corwin and the rest of the Sword Coast that she had. Viconia was right, these people would never judge 'evil creatures' like them for anything but their race. Not really.

"Your father has a bleak view of the world," replied Freya.

"My father is concerned that a lycanthropic daughter of the Lord of Murder wields so much power in our city," said Corwin. "And so am I." She looked expectantly at Freya, who bristled. What did she want her to do? Apologise for being born? Beg for her approval? She had rolled with Corwin's blows before, retaliating with nothing but words. If she were half so evil as this woman believed, then both the officer and most of her army would be dead already.

"Your father is a bitter, cynical little man," growled Freya. "Just like his daughter."


	13. Imoen

Rasaad was feeling guilty. Not that there was anything unusual about that. Self-reproach was the standard state of mind for the monk. Every day he replayed his brother's death over and over in his head, wondering if he could have done something to make things turn out differently. Worse, he knew that he was a reprehensible brigand for even considering Irenicus' offer to hand him Freya in exchange for leaving Arrow alone. He still had not told Freya about this, nor his suspicions that the wizard had purchased Safana. Whenever they stopped for meals he could not help looking over at Arrow, who was avoiding returning his gaze. He knew he had hurt her. He should never have surrendered to his feelings and kissed her, but the kindness she showed to others, even her vile brother Eric, tugged at his heartstrings.

Her hair had grown out into a coffee-coloured choppy crop. Even from this distance he could see her pretty freckles. The sprinkled dots had taken advantage of the sunny weather to spread from her nose and colonise the rest of her face. She was laughing with Minsc as they played with Boo. The hamster was jumping from her palm to his fist and back again, as the two of them moved their arms to different positions to form new challenges for the tiny acrobat. Rasaad forced himself to look away.

Yet right now the thing that was eating away at him most was that he seemed incapable of meditating without his thoughts drifting to women. Not just one specific woman but _any_ woman. Arrow, Viconia, Freya, Safana… gods even Corwin. Before he left the monastery he'd believed he had outgrown the phase of his life where his body seemed to have a will of its own. But recently he had gotten even worse.

After a horrendous incident involving Arrow, Viconia and a succubus in Durlag's Tower, he had vowed never to submit to his physical urges ever again, even in his fantasies. He found them condemnable, repulsive and wished that he could tear such feelings from his soul and drown them. Unfortunately said-urges were not cooperating. He was able to manage about thirty seconds worth of meditating before his mind drifted. Moonlight reflecting from rocks, even very pretty rocks, could not compete with the young man's libido. Though he had a tent to himself, it had been months since he had given in and sated his sex drive, but his discipline was costing him his sleep and driving him out of his mind.

His new party leader, on the other hand, was in fine spirits. Rasaad had an inkling that part of the reason for this might be because she had some fine spirits _in her_. He had his suspicions about Freya's private 'waterskin' that she never let anybody else drink from. She was swaggering through the camp, greeted as she went by admiring officers. The golden Hero seemed to know everybody.

"Officer Guarnville, Officer Brielle," she nodded. The man saluted and the woman stopped her drill practise to smile and blush a little. "Officer Prin, what a fine singing voice you have! And… I'm terribly sorry are you new? I don't believe we've met."

Freya was addressing the only woman in the camp who was taller than she was. She was clearly a cleric, but a warrior cleric. She carried a large, heavy mace which she was twirling easily in her thick hands. As the werewolf approached she stood to attention. The Hero scratched her neck in a rather dog-like way and sniffed. Surprisingly for a military march, this woman had overdone it a bit on the perfume, just like Edwin. Freya disliked perfume. It overrode a person's real scent, sort of like wearing a tacky mask all the time, but she didn't mention it. Humans could get terribly sensitive about things relating to smell.

"I am Mizhena, faithful of Tempus. Praise be to the Lord of Battles!"

"We were talking about this servant of all faiths," said Skie cheerfully, "Mizhena thinks it might be you!"

Mizhena looked a little embarrassed at this. Clearly she had not expected Skie to recount their conversation to the subject of it. There was a loud cracking noise as behind them a crate was opened, followed by a thundering cascade of hundreds of escaping apples and a lot of swearing. Cursing was a near constant in the camp for one reason or another. The soldier's language made Freya's own appear, if not quite polite, then at least short of rude. The Bitch of Baldur's Gate cocked her head to one side and considered the possibility that she might be the servant of all gods.

"Nah. I don't reckon. I serve one goddess and I'm not sure I'm even managing that very well," laughed Freya, making the eyes of Selune with her thumbs and forefingers. Nobody disagreed with her. "What's a cleric of Tempus doing here anyway?" she asked. She knew it was a slightly redundant question but it seemed only polite.

"Steeling the troops for the coming battle," replied Mizhena proudly. "Savouring the anticipation of certain glory. Waiting for the call of my Lord. You look like one who has seen many battles and yet you are no soldier. What would you have of me?"

"Nothing in particular, just making conversation. You know you're the first human woman I've ever met who's even bigger than me?" observed Freya good-naturedly. "And the only one with an even deeper voice! You're not a werewolf too by any chance, are you?"

"You think you're funny do you?" snapped Mizhena.

"I have my moments," grinned Freya, innocently oblivious to the fact that a woman like Mizhena may not exactly welcome remarks about her height and voice.

"Not as many as you'd like to think," Safana sighed sweetly.

A young Flaming Fist officer, the same one who had delivered the message to Corwin about the vampire, broke out through the throng of soldiers. Pimply, dressed in an oversized uniform and seeming far too young for war. He ran up to Freya and stood on tiptoe to whisper something in her ear. A look of relief swept over the werewolf's handsome face. She bowed hastily to the clerics and half bounded across the camp, calling to Arrow to come with her.

Mizhena watched her go, her narrowed eyes welling up slightly.

"I do not believe Freya meant any harm," said Rasaad tentatively.

"She didn't notice your… background," Safana added in a delicate tone. Mizhena shot her a deeply sarcastic look. Between her build, voice and thinning hair it was not easily missed, and the cleric knew it. Safana sighed. "I know it's hard to believe but she really is that dumb."

"You have to understand that Freya is _very_ stupid," agreed Corwin emphatically.

"She's not stupid!" cried Skie defensively. The others all looked at her doubtfully, even Rasaad. "Well, not completely. She's good at strategy and organizing things she's just not so clever when it comes to people."

"She's an adventurer who didn't even know that _vampires need staking_ ," said Corwin, scathingly. "My five-year-old could beat her on general knowledge."

"That's not her fault, she spent most of her childhood locked up in a tower with no-one but a pair of monks for company, except a few days a month when they said she was safe enough to come out!" Skie argued. "She's only been free for a year and she had to learn almost everything from scratch." A small frown line appeared between Rasaad's eyes. Though Arrow had been glad to see the back of Candlekeep, he knew that Freya practically hero-worshipped Gorion. He had always assumed, therefore, that the Hero's childhood had been a happy one.

"Wait!" Mizhena whispered suddenly. "I recognize you! You're Skie Silvershield." Skie shushed her hastily, though of course almost everybody knew who she was. Mizhena went on slightly breathlessly, "You're Maire Silvershield's heir!"

Skie nodded without enthusiasm. She had always considered her ancestor to be rather dull. At least after her marriage. Before that she had toured the Sword Coast playing her harp for all the greatest names of the age. Durlag, the Grand Dukes, even Queen Ellesime herself. After settling down though her existence had been, in Skie's opinion, a model of domestic mediocrity. Father held Maire up as an example of the sort of woman he would like Skie to be one day. A respectable married noblewoman whose main achievement in life was breeding more nobles. However she knew, from Freya, that Maire's propensity for reproduction had made her an accidental icon to many in the city.

This was because by the time it became known that Maire had once gone by the name of Marc, her numerous children and grandchildren had married into every noble house in the city. To doubt the validity of her marriage to Grand Duke Silvershield was to doubt the legitimacy of the entire aristocracy. The result was that the upper-class of Baldur's Gate took a uniquely dim view of bigotry toward people like Mizhenza. Maire's tedious life and death afforded her, Freya and many others a sort of freedom and protection that they would never enjoy in Athkatla.

"I have a boon to ask of you," Mizhena said quietly. "During a battle with crusaders on the Eastern edge of the forest I dropped an amulet. We were forced to retreat and I have not had a chance to go back for it. If any of you should come across it in your travels, I would greatly appreciate its safe return."

"We'll keep an eye out for it," promised Skie and Mizhena smiled at her with shining eyes.

Meanwhile Arrow was standing with Freya on the edge of camp looking disappointed, though her sister was still pacing back and forth excitedly. Like a puppy waiting for the family to come home. With a clattering of hooves, Duke Silvershield had come galloping up on his doped racehorse. Its unnatural speed stirred up dramatic clouds of red road-dust to mark his arrival but Imoen was not with him. Captain Corwin started fawning over him as soon as he arrived. Freya caught the Captain's eye, looked pointedly at the dust on Silvershield's riding boots and stuck out her tongue to mime licking. The Duke, however, ignored both Corwin and Freya, seeking out Bence Duncan instead.

"He keeps coming," whispered Freya to her sister in a low voice. "He's pretending it's about the war effort, but really he wants to keep an eye on Skie. I feel bloody sorry for Bence. She doesn't listen to a word he says, but it'll be his head on the chopping block first if anything happens to her."

"Is this it? I thought he was supposed to be bringing Imoen!" cried Arrow. "Where is she?"

"The Dukes? Oh gods no!" laughed Freya, tossing back her golden mane. "Like I'd trust those incompetent gits with something that important. No, I didn't send word to Silvershield to rescue her, I wrote to-"

"Me!" a man laughed behind her. He had a sexy, teasing voice. The ranger felt her breath start to quicken. "Hello Arowan. It is nice to see you again."

Arrow turned around and there, seated on a brown charger was Coran. Behind him, her arms circled around his waist to keep from falling off was Imoen. So great was Arrow's relief at seeing Imoen alive and well that she barely registered the shock of her one-night stand's unexpected reappearance. She let out a noise between a cry and a sob and ran to the pink-haired girl. Freya laughed delightedly, and did the same, lifting her down from the horse. Coran smiled broadly, his auburn hair falling over his face as he dismounted in one smooth movement and dropped to the ground beside them with a soft thud.

"Do not get comfortable!" Duke Silvershield looked up from his conversation with Bence to shout at Coran. "You are not welcome here, thief!"

The elf grinned behind his mask and bowed to the three women. Arrow smiled back, and his twinkling green eyes lingered on her longer than the others. It was exhilarating to have their little secret and she wondered what Imoen would make of it. Her friend seemed none-the-worse for being used as Irenicus' dream conduit. She was ecstatic to see the pair of them again, though when Coran took her hand with the intent of kissing it farewell, Imoen deftly turned the move into a handshake instead. He made no such move with Freya. Instead he found himself engulfed in a suffocating bear-hug by the much larger woman.

"Cheers mate," she said. "I've been worried. About both of you."

"Not without reason," replied Coran hastily, with a sideways look at Duke Silvershield. "He had Imoen watched, the Hooded Man. Getting her out wasn't easy."

"I was afraid he might try to take one of you as a hostage," muttered Freya.

"He was. He did. But then he went into my mind," replied Imoen. Suddenly she went from looking happy to see them to fearful and close to tears. "And it was like I could see you all, all the different pieces of my soul. Thorg's, Draxle's, Eric's… but he didn't care about any of them. He was looking for you two and when he found you he started trying to cut…"

Coran glanced over at Duke Silvershield again who was gesturing to the criminal elf to begone. He looked into Arrow's dark eyes and opened his mouth to say something, but she shook her head a fraction and he smiled at her instead. He bent down and kissed the back of her hand. The brief brush of his lips against her skin felt pleasantly familiar, but Bence and Corwin were approaching him now wearing warning scowls. With a boost from Freya he remounted his horse (which like the Duke's had been plied with potions of speed) and with a parting wave galloped back in the direction of the city.

"Will he be ok?" worried Arrow, "With Irenicus out there?"

"Coran can take care of himself," said Freya confidently. "He's been in the business of hiding from his exes for a long time. Trust me, if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

"Besides Irenicus won't bother to look," Imoen said shakily. She looked at Freya almost accusingly. "He knows there's no point taking Coran, or me. He examined my soul and he looked into yours too. Irenicus knows if he used us as bait, you wouldn't come for us."

"Imoen I…" Freya began.

"It's ok. I wouldn't want you to," said Imoen. Then she brightened up. "Can we go see the others?"

As they followed the eager chimera through the camp, Arrow did not notice that a half-smile was still lingering on her lips. Not until Freya casually and quietly observed that Arrow was the first of Coran's former lovers who still seemed to like him after the relationship ended. Arrow froze.

"You're not going to attack me, are you?" Freya asked in an amused voice. "Only I kind of have this history of Coran's exes trying to stab me. Safana, Brielbara, that wolfwere after we rescued her from the island… remind me to tell you about her some time. It's a funny story."

This remark was met with a frosty silence.

"He told you?" Arrow asked, her voice rigid with fury.

"Nah, he didn't have to. I was in the next room," Freya rolled her eyes with a half-smile, "And I know my best mate when I smell him." Arrow's lips thinned. "Look, I won't tell anyone but there's no shame in it. So, you got drunk and fucked Coran? Hells, we've all done it!"

"I wasn't drunk," replied Arrow through gritted teeth, "And I'm not ashamed of it."

"Ok!" replied Freya, raising her hands disarmingly. "Relax. I'm not judging!"

"Good, because there's nothing to judge!" snapped Arrow.

"Oh gods, speaking of judging," groaned Freya, suddenly distracted.

They were passing Skie's tent. Bence was trying to persuade her to come out, while the Duke and Corwin watched from a distance so he could see his daughter, while pretending not to know that she was there. He stroked his beard impatiently. The corporal lifted up the saggy red tent flap and stuck his head under the canopy.

"I'm your commanding officer Fist Goldbuckler!" Bence called. His normally calm and gravelly voice shot up an octave as the unlucky soldier finally lost his temper. "Get out of that tent!"

Skie came out, hand on hip and immediately started giving Bence a dressing down for disturbing her. Her hair was mussed up and her uniform only half on. It was obvious that the girl had been asleep. Despite her decidedly good-alignment, Arrow was no great respecter of authority. Still she felt as though Skie's behaviour was unfair to Bence. The noblewoman had signed up of her own volition and now the poor man had to 'command' her knowing that in a few years time she would hold the power to destroy his career on a whim. Assuming she couldn't do that already, with a few well-placed words to Daddy. Even Freya admitted it was an unenviable position for Bence to find himself in.

"What do you want now, Bence?" Skie demanded. Technically he was her superior, but their body language and her tone of voice told a different story.

"It's 'Corporal Duncan,' Fist!" he shouted. Skie looked livid that Bence would dare to raise his voice to her, but any normal soldier who took that tone with him would have been put on latrine duty and flogged. "Why aren't you practising drills with the rest of your squad?"

"I've got better things to do," said Skie haughtily.

"This is your influence, _Hero,_ " Corwin said softly to Freya. She and the Duke had come up quietly behind the two Bhaalspawn. Silvershield glared at the werewolf with narrowed eyes.

"Oh yes mi'lord," agreed Freya sarcastically. "Because your daughter was such an obedient little lady before she met me. How did she meet me again, do you recall?"

Duke Silvershield ground his back teeth and his pointed face turned an angry, ruddy colour. He knew full well how Skie and Freya had met. The entire aristocracy seemed to, and it had made him the butt of endless ridicule. His daughter and her repugnant boyfriend had blackmailed Freya, Safana and Coran into doing a job for her. What made it worse was that the job had involved robbing _him._ There was no denying that his little girl's morality had been corrupted long before the Bhaalspawn turned up in their lives. Yet he did not appreciate being reminded of it.

"Skie I know you don't like doing drills," Bence went on, almost pleading, "But the skills you're learning now could save your life."

He reached out an armoured hand, with the apparent intention of grabbing her shoulder and frogmarching her to the drills. Alarm and disapproval flashed over the Duke's face at this, while the Hero could not supress a small growl. Their concern was unnecessary however. Skie lashed out with her other hand, and Bence was too slow to deflect her. She was stronger than she looked and the combination of the speed of the strike and Bence's surprise, knocked him onto his back.

"That's my girl," Freya grinned. Even the Duke's face betrayed a momentary flicker of pride, before it was replaced by his customary scowl.

"I think I'll make do with the skills I have Bence," Skie told him prettily. "The ones that saved you from a wild boar attack yesterday. Now go away. I have an important nap to get back to."

She turned and retreated into her tent, leaving Bence to haul himself up. His armour was covered in stinking camp-muck and he cut a sorry figure, yelling impotently to her to come back. Though red-faced with frustration, and close to tears, his charge refused to return. A few tentative raindrops fell from the sky, pinging off of his helmet. Arrow pitied him.

"I've seen enough," muttered the Duke disappointedly. "Corwin, I expected better from you and Bence. If anything she's getting worse under your care and as for _you,_ " he jabbed a bony finger into Freya's collarbone. "If you refer to my daughter as 'your girl' again I will have you skinned alive, is that understood?"

"Sir," replied Freya, through gritted teeth.

The Duke mounted his steed, fed it another potion of speed from his backpack, and galloped back toward the city after Coran. It was odd to watch the unnaturally rapid swish of the beast's tail and the shrill whinny of its sped-up voice. Corwin stood smartly to attention until he was out of sight and then rounded on Freya.

"This is your fault, you know!" she cried, though quietly so that the officers would not hear her. "She sees you mock and disrespect us every day. Skie picks up on that, and not just her, the regular soldiers have started behaving like this too. You don't participate in training, you ignore our orders, you blatantly question our competence at every opportunity. Now they think that they can do the same!"

"I am not one of your fucking soldiers," growled Freya.

"Doesn't matter! They respect you, they copy you!" Corwin countered. The raindrops were turning into a spit now and storm clouds were rolling in rapidly from the North. "Grow up Freya, this is war! The skills they're supposed to be learning now could save their lives. What do you think is going to happen to them if they ignore our orders in a real battle? What do you think will happen to Skie? And if that isn't enough, if there's a mutiny what do you think is going to happen to you? You need this army!"

For once, some of what Captain Corwin was saying actually seemed to get through. The werewolf opened her mouth to argue, but she seemed to change her mind. Her grey, wolfish eyes locked on Corwin's in a steely expression. Freya let out a slow, reluctant breath of air.

"You may have a point. Sir." Freya replied, and for the first time she managed to use the title without sounding sarcastic. "I don't want her running into battle not knowing what to do. I'll… I'll talk to Skie."

"Good! Let's go!" Corwin replied sharply.

"Now?" blinked Freya.

"Right now!" Corwin insisted. The two of them set off toward Skie's tent. Arrow tried to slip away, but Imoen refused to let go of her hand and dragged her after Freya. They were the last two Candlekeep Bhaalspawn from whom Imoen's patchwork soul had been formed. The pink-haired chimera seemed reluctant to let either of them out of her sight. The rain was starting to come down in earnest now, but after days of prolonged heat, many in camp considered this a relief. Corwin ducked into the tent but Freya almost had to bend over double to follow. Arrow and Imoen sat in the most distant corner and the ranger, who really didn't think she ought to be part of this intervention, tried to make herself small. Skie was sat up in her bedroll, looking sulky. It was clear that she knew exactly why they were there.

"What do you expect me to do?" she frowned at Freya. "March back and forth in the mud with the other addlepates?"

"Would you rather die than lower yourself to march with us?" asked Freya levelly. "Is my company that demeaning?"

"It isn't your company though is it?" replied Skie. "You won't be there, you never bother."

"Freya isn't a soldier, you are!" countered Corwin. "You signed up for this."

"You need to do the drills Skie," persisted Freya, gently. "If you don't, Duke Silvershield will never see you as anything more than a child. You… we… need to start taking this seriously. For the troops if nothing else."

"What do you mean 'we?'" demanded Skie. "You said the foot soldiers might need this nonsense, but we both know it is a waste of time for people like us."

"I was wrong," admitted Freya. She was a fairly self-centred creature but, like most canines, loyal to her own pack. The Flaming Fist had fought on her behalf many times and were still defending her. She didn't want to see them die unnecessarily because of her own bad example. "While we're in camp I will participate in the drills and I'll follow Captain Corwin's orders from now on. I'm signing up to the Flaming Fist."

" _You are_?" Skie and Corwin echoed in gobsmacked unison.

"Yeah?" Freya chewed it over. "Yeah. I'm going to find Bence and do it now. Not starting at the bottom, mind. Having every petty officer able to give me orders won't be workable." Corwin gave her a look. Freya shrugged. "Well, it won't. There are dozens of them! Any one of them could take a bribe from Irenicus and order me to tie myself up and march naked into the wood."

"Alright. Good." Corwin replied, stiffly surprised that the werewolf could be reasoned with. She was still half-expecting this to turn out to be a wind-up. "Report to Bence for the drills now and we'll negotiate your rank when the Duke is next in camp. Er… dismissed?"

"Sir." Freya replied and saluted. She saluted pretty poorly, but it was a sincere effort. The great golden wolf departed from the tent into the rain and sniffed about the camp to locate Bence. For a moment Corwin seemed a little shell-shocked.

"Don't look at me!" Arrow said hastily. "I'm not signing up!" Corwin laughed.

"I don't think you're cut out for the military," she replied. "Freya actually might be… with a major attitude readjustment. This had better not be one of her lame attempts at humour. And while we're talking about attitudes…" she rounded on Skie. "I'm surprised you're not taking this chance to rebuild your reputation. If I were you, I'd want to be known in the city for something other than spreading your legs for every common bard who comes knocking."

"Wh- what?" gaped Skie, taken aback. "You can't say that to me!"

"I might as well," retorted Corwin. "You might have Bence pissing himself, but if you ever become my commanding officer, I'll quit. My job is to arrest the street-walkers, not take orders from them."

"I'm not a… Eldoth and I were in love!" Skie suddenly looked close to tears.

"I had to follow you around that year and I'd hardly call it love," Corwin spat. She pointed at Arrow, who bristled. "If you want to be like a Bhaalspawn, maybe you should try being like that one, instead of dangling from Freya's slutty tail."

"You dare… you think I won't tell Father what you just said?" she screeched.

"Your father says exactly the same thing," said Corwin sharply. "But the rest of the nobility say worse. You decided you don't want to listen to 'Daddy' and marry an aristocrat. Turns out you might actually get your wish. Because no respectable man will have you!"

Skie started to cry. Corwin made a disgusted noise and trampled over the noblewoman's discarded clothes into the rain. Arrow and Imoen looked at each other, mortified. Neither of them knew Skie very well, Arrow especially, and they couldn't think what to say.

"Skie? You ok?" Arrow ventured, awkwardly.

The other woman's head snapped up. Her face was not quite pointy like her father's but she had definitely inherited something of its sharp, angular quality. Despite being a Fist now, her eyebrows were still perfectly plucked, her nails neatly filed and light makeup tastefully applied. Only the dishevelled state of her hair betrayed any hint that things might be starting to unravel. She glared daggers at Arrow, clearly displeased at being compared unfavourably to her.

"If you're about to give me some Ilmatari lecture about sex outside of marriage, you can take it and shove it up your-" Skie began unpleasantly. Her eye makeup was leeching down her face.

"I've had sex outside of marriage," cut-in Arrow mildly.

"Wait, you and Rasaad finally…?" Imoen beamed, but Arrow shook her head. "Then who? Not Xan? Was it Hull when you went back to Candlekeep?" The ranger winced a bit at that. She had forgotten to tell Imoen that Hull was dead. Then Imoen squealed and burst out; "Wait, I know! Minsc!"

"No, no and no!" Arrow replied exasperatedly. "Really, Minsc? That's not a mental image I needed! Look, it isn't important who it was. The point is that there's nothing wrong with having a good time with someone."

"You say that, but you don't want to admit who it was," Skie sniffed. "Which means really you are ashamed of it."

"Um... it's not that I'm embarrassed by it..." Arrow looked around the tent flap, just to check they weren't in danger of being overheard. There was nobody around, but she still beckoned the other women in, and they craned closer to catch her whisper. "It's more that I can't dodge Safana's dagger as easily as Freya can."

There was a pause as her words sunk in. Suddenly Skie let out a delighted squeal, that sent birds scattering from the nearby trees in fright.

"Coran? _You_ slept with Coran?!"

"Shhh!" Arrow hushed her, turning a bit pink. The information certainly had the desired effect of cheering Skie up. She still looked a mess with her bed hair and runny makeup, but she stopped crying at once. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"Coran?" cried Imoen quietly, looking concerned. "You let Coran sweet talk you into bed? But why?"

"Let him talk...? No!" Arrow echoed, frowning. "Nobody talked me into anything, I invited him to stay."

"Why?" gasped Imoen, comically horrified. "You must have known he wouldn't stick around!" Arrow's scowl deepened and Imoen looked slightly abashed. "I'm so sorry Arrow, I didn't even know you had those sorts of feelings for him."

Arrow spluttered and clapped her hand to her mouth. When they had lived together at Candlekeep, Imoen had a dozen Bhaalspawn to occupy her, of whom Arrow had been around the least. She had always been acutely aware of how unwelcome her presence was among the monks, and had scaled the walls to escape into the woods almost every day. Strangely, given that Imoen carried a chunk of her soul, the pink-haired girl barely knew her. She had come out with one odd suggestion after another; that she and Rasaad would end up together, that she might fall in love with Coran. Arrow hoped that the part about Minsc was a joke, but it was hard to be sure.

"I don't have feelings for him," she admitted. "Not like that, anyway. I certainly didn't want to be his girlfriend! It was just... you know. Two friends having fun."

Imoen goggled at the Ilmatari as though she could not quite believe what she was hearing. Skie, on the other hand, seized both of Arrow's hands delightedly. She shuffled closer to her new friend, hungry for more gossip.

"So," Skie giggled conspiratorially, "What was he like?"

"How do you mean?" asked Arrow with a nervous grin.

"Well he's an elf, they're practically immortal. He could have been at this for decades. Centuries even!" replied Skie. "That's an awful lot of practise. Is he...?" she collapsed into giggles again. "Is he good?"

"Skie!" gasped Imoen. She was used to being the one to shock people with the things she said, but the tables had turned today. Arrow cast her mind back to that night in the Ducal Palace and found that she couldn't supress a smile. She held Skie's gaze for a minute and then nodded emphatically. The young aristocrat positively vibrated with glee.

"I thought you were such a pious, stuck up snob!" Skie giggled. She stroked Arowan's short, dark hair. "But now I see that we're going to be friends."

In another tent, Freya and Viconia were also discussing sex. Freya had reported to an utterly bemused Bence, but it was an hour until the next drill. She waited out the rain with the drow, who was technically also signed up to the Fist, and also had to participate. At first Freya had been curious about Edwin and his strange, semi-servile relationship with her. From there the conversation drifted to more general relationship talk. The dark elf took a ruthlessly pragmatic approach to the subject of romance, which Freya found fascinating and terrifying in equal measure.

"Men believe they are the masters when they take a woman to their bed, but they quickly become the pawns," Viconia was explaining. "I survive more easily when males serve me."

"I appreciate your pragmatism," replied Freya mildly. She wrinkled her pretty nose at the thought of having males serving her. "If not your taste."

She was polishing her armour. Normally she didn't bother, since magical armour rarely rusted, but if she was going to become a proper soldier then she supposed she ought to look the part. Her bastard swords didn't need it. They were her precious babies, and always gleaming. The werewolf had drawn the line when the greedy proprietor of Sorcerous Sundries had demanded them in exchange for dropping the charges against Coran. The fancy armour she could just about bear to part with. Her blades were a step too far. The wizard may as well have asked her to part with her own arms.

"I am pleased you see it that way," said Viconia. "It is not often that surfacers can understand the ways of drow." Freya responded with a snort of derision.

"I don't pretend to understand the ways of drow Viconia. I barely even understand the ways of my own species," she said. Then she sighed. "In fact, until this past year Gorion only let me out of my tower for a few hours on select days of the month. Truth be told, I don't understand that much about the ways of humans either."

"It was an unfortunate decision of Gorion's," Viconia replied archly. "Perhaps that is why you reject men? You would avoid a replacement master."

"Don't," growled Freya. "The Athkatlan monks used to do that too. Try to get to the bottom of why I like women so they could fix me."

She scowled at the side of the tent for a moment, her handsome face hardening. Viconia picked idly at the blanket she was sat on. It was blue and quite soft. The Red Wizard had held on to it all the way from Thay. A stray thread was coming loose, the annoying looping sort that catches on fingers and toes in one's sleep. Still, it was Edwin's blanket not hers, so she didn't much care. The two of them were still pretending to be a couple but since he hit her with that fireball, she had toned down her bullying.

"Gorion wasn't my master he was my Dad," said Freya bluntly, "And I reject men because their chests are too flat, their faces are too hairy and their legs and arses are a weird bloody shape. They're just too damned ugly!"

"Even Rasaad?" smiled Viconia. "I have to say I find the moon monk…"

"..all segmented and disjointed?" Freya finished for her. "Muscular men are even worse than regular blokes. The muscles make them look like ankegs and lobsters, all split up into squarish sections. Sorry Viccy, I look at that and I just don't see what you see. I see an oversized invertebrate."

"Don't be sorry," Viconia smiled. "You are a most attractive female and I could do without the competition. Male pawns need a queen and I prefer to rule alone."

The werewolf looked at the shapely drow and imagined her sat on some great throne in the Underdark. Whip in hand and silver hair flowing while chained slaves obeyed her every whim. Nobody would dare disobey her, but she could imagine Viconia punishing her anyway, just because she could. The drow smiled at her and Freya wondered if she guessed what she was thinking. It was a scenario that the Bitch of Baldur's Gate found oddly appealing.

"For the record I may not like masters, but I've got no problem whatsoever with mistresses," ventured Freya. "Just in case you ever feel like expanding your dominion into new territory."

"I will keep that in mind," the drow smirked, her scarlet eyes flashing.

Meanwhile, Arrow was regretting telling Imoen about Coran. Since their brief stint travelling together around Nashkel, Imoen had been rooting for Arrow and Rasaad. In fact she had never taken their breakup entirely seriously, and seemed to be of the opinion that the ranger had somehow wronged him.

"Does Rasaad know?" she asked.

"It's none of Rasaad's business," said Arrow firmly.

"He'd be hurt if he knew!" Imoen said, accusingly. The rain was pounding hard on the side of the tent now. Arrow suspected that Freya might regret her decision to join the Flaming Fist once the next round of drills commenced. Nothing got in the way of those practises. Battles were no respecters of the weather, so the army trained in all conditions.

"All the Selunite does is mope anyway, so what's the difference?" Skie giggled.

"Harsh but accurate," agreed Arrow.

"I can't believe you of all people would have sex with a man you don't even love!" cried Imoen. She was having a harder time accepting this than the other woman would have expected. Just then the drill whistle sounded.

"Well to be fair _part_ of me loves Coran a great deal," quipped Arrow with a bit of a grin. "It's just that part happens not to be my heart."

Imoen cracked up a little at this and hugged the ranger. The drill whistle sounded again and Skie huffed reluctantly but, to Arrow's surprise, she pulled her hair into a back knot, wiped off her smudged makeup and went outside to join in.

"I'm sorry Arrow," smiled Imoen. "It's just that I like someone too. The same person for a long time and I can't imagine being with anyone else."

At last the penny dropped. Unfortunately it was the wrong penny. When Imoen said this, the first face that sprang to Arrow's mind was Rasaad's. Who else had Imoen known for such a long time? Was this why she was so concerned that her fling with Coran might hurt the monk's feelings? Perhaps she ought to have guessed sooner.

"A long time ago," said Arrow, looking at her friend shrewdly, "You told me that you liked someone who was totally off-limits. That someone wouldn't be a certain Calishite by any chance would it? Because if it is, that's ok."

Imoen stared at Arrow in disbelief. She had no notion that Arrow knew anything about her feelings for Khalid, never mind accepted it. Clearly the ranger was more open minded than she had given her credit for. The freckled woman was looking at her with a half-sad, half-amused face.

"You're not mad at me?" asked Imoen tentatively. She knew that Arrow viewed Khalid as her own father. Surely, she could not really be ok with this.

Arrow, of course, would not be ok with it at all, if she knew who Imoen was really talking about. The Calishite whom Arrow had in mind was Rasaad. It made perfect sense to her that Imoen would fancy him (after all pretty much everyone else did) but he was off-limits to her because Arrow liked him. That was kind of her, but no longer necessary. She and Rasaad were done, after all, and she wanted Imoen to be happy.

"It'd sting to see you together at first, I'm not going to lie. But I'd get over it," Arrow said kindly, though picturing the other girl with Rasaad made her feel like she'd swallowed a mace-ball. Imoen still looked crippled by guilt, and the ranger smiled and gave her a small hug. Then she added reassuringly, "Immy sometimes people fall in love who just aren't right for each other."

"You think that's what happened in this case?" Imoen blinked at her with wide, hopeful eyes. She had long given up on Khalid, but if even Arrow thought that he and Jaheira weren't right for each other then maybe there was hope after all.

"I am absolutely certain of it," said Arrow firmly. Indeed, by this point she was of the opinion that there were few people in Faerun less well suited than herself and Rasaad.

She gave Imoen one last squeeze and then slipped out of the tent and walked back to her party. Mainly because further discussion of the monk was more than she could stand. The thought was stomach churning. Arrow told herself resolutely that she would get used to the idea of Rasaad and Imoen as a couple. She was determined to. In a way it would be a relief for them both to move on. As she approached the soaked former-campfire she saw Minsc looking fed up, drenched and bored. Perhaps they should all go for a walk. A nice wet stroll through the woods would clear her head. Perhaps if they were lucky, some nice troll or spider bottoms would present themselves for a therapeutic Minsc-kicking.

Imoen, on the other hand, lay down on Skie's bedroll with her pink head buzzing. 'Absolutely certain,' Arrow had said. Absolutely certain that Khalid was with the wrong partner. She had thought herself with Khalid was crazy, not to mention immoral, but now it seemed like a genuine possibility. Maybe even the right thing to do. Arrow loved Jaheira like a mother. She would never have said what she had if there were any doubt. What if the pair of them were trapped in an unhappy marriage and all that was needed to bring it to an end was for one of them to fall for somebody else? She closed her eyes and thought only of him.


	14. Baeloth the Entertainer

"Damn I look hot in uniform!" Freya announced loudly to an unimpressed world. She flung out her chest and rear in a provocative pose and winked at her new commanding officer. "Come on Corwin, you know it's true."

It was. She wore long boots over tight fitted breeches that highlighted her (as Skie would put it) distinctive bum. Her hips pinched at the waist of the fitted armour, emblazoned neatly with the Flaming Fist insignia. They had failed to beat her feral hair back into a tidy bun, so had compromised at a half-ponytail. She certainly cut a dashing figure, with her standard issue sword at her hip, though this was for decoration only. Her real blades were still strapped as discretely as possible to her back. Skie was looking at her with shining eyes, and she wasn't the only one.

Corwin had worried that the soldiers might have trouble accepting a new senior officer who was neither a noble nor someone who had worked her way up through the ranks. However, Freya's imposing build and mammoth charisma were such that the moment she stepped out of the Quartermaster's tent in her new uniform, everyone automatically saluted. Freya smiled at Corwin through the drizzling rain, then remembered herself and saluted her Captain.

"Well look at that!" cried Officer Prin. "The Bitch of Baldur's Gate is one of us now!"

And just like that she was accepted, as if she had been a serving soldier all her life.

"Charisma will do that for you," drawled Safana.

She was catching up with Minsc and Dynaheir. It had been a long time since the three of them had journeyed together, but her burgeoning friendship with Viconia had not passed unnoticed. The Rashemen witch was offended that so many of her former companions were willing to overlook Viconia's attempt to murder her. Especially Safana, since it was not like her to overlook _anything_.

"I am not sure if I fully trust thee any more Safana," Dynaheir said.

"I wouldn't if I were you," the thief smiled sardonically. "My mother used to say, 'you can always trust a man to do the wrong thing, but never trust a woman to do anything.'"

"Thy mother had a dim view of humanity," replied Dynaheir archly.

"My mother knew humanity well. That does tend to adversely affect ones view of it, in my experience." Safana looked over pointedly at Freya as she said this. Dynaheir, who had her own issues with the Hero of Baldur's Gate, nodded fairly. It struck her that Safana seemed to have forgiven the werewolf for sleeping with Coran a little too quickly, and that in itself was strange.

"Are we off?" asked Arrow cheerfully.

The main camp were staying put for a full day of rest before they crossed the bridge into crusader territory. Of course, 'rest' did not really mean resting. There were inventories to be taken, weapons to be sharpened, minor injuries for the healers to tend to and, naturally, endless drills. Freya, however, had been let off the hook. The Bhaalspawn and their two parties had been tasked with scouting the area. It would be no good to start crossing the bridge only to find themselves ambushed from the rear. Imoen was not accompanying them. She had come down with a mysterious headache which neither Glint nor Mizhena were able to lift. Glint pressed onto her forehead a sticky patch, filled with herbs and inscribed with clerical runes, but it didn't seem to help.

Aside from a few trolls and a pair of wolves, the first thing the two parties came to was a razed tavern. The crusaders had really done a number on it, there was nothing remaining but a charred timber skeleton and a vast mound of ashes. Freya sniffed the air, though she could catch little above the overpowering smell of burnt thatch. Some of the assailants had been hobgoblins, but beyond that she could glean nothing useful. Unsurprisingly the innkeeper was beside himself, but there was little they could do. As they turned away a stout man came running after them begging them to help him find his lost friends.

"Calm down. What is your name? Who are you searching for?" Arrow asked, concerned.

"Herod's the name. We're all refugees and we banded together for protection, but some of us have gone missing," the man fretted, mopping his broad sweaty brow. "Five have vanished so far leaving all of their possessions behind. It's a right mystery."

"They probably wandered into the woods and were devoured by wild beasts," said Viconia indifferently.

"By Ilmater, I hope not!" cried the man. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "See that tall elf-woman, Teleria? She arrived just before people started vanishing. Nobody knows anything else about her."

"We'll talk to her," said Freya, curtly.

"Luck to you," nodded Herod.

Teleria was an unusual looking elf. She had the same rounded physique and burgeoning double-chin as Coran. It was a classic sign, Safana informed them spitefully, of an elf who had grown overly-accustomed to human food. Particularly potatoes. Apparently spuds did not agree with the fair folk's physiques. She had elegant braided hair, falling in a long black plait to her waist, and deep brown eyes.

"What do you want strangers?" she demanded as they approached her.

"A deep question. All sorts really," shrugged Freya. "Personally I want a stiff drink, Minsc wants to kick evil butts. Rasaad wants inner peace, Viconia wants protection, Safana wants gold and pampering. Corwin, I assume, wants some lubricant to remove the enormous stick that she has wedged up her arse and Boo here wants some cheese. Arrow…"

"…wants to talk to you about the missing refugees," said Arrow, soberly.

"I've heard about this," said the elf in a high sing-song voice. "But I don't know anyone who has vanished."

"Oh well, so much for that," said Freya, who had limited interest in problems that could not be solved with swords. "Thank you for your time, you've been… well not helpful exactly." She shrugged and led her party away, but Arrow, Minsc and Dynaheir remained behind.

"Herod tells me the people started disappearing shortly after you arrived," said Arrow. "He thinks that you might have had something to do with the disappearances."

"There are too many people around," Teleria whispered, "I can't say anything here. Meet me in the forest, there's a clearing to the North-West. I'll tell you what I know."

"Ah, excellent!" beamed Minsc happily. "A quest!"

Meanwhile Freya and her party continued into the woods. It was an unfriendly sort of wood, full of nettles and spiky brambles, but the werewolf went ahead and trampled them down under her new boots. Corwin caught up with her, stumbling over a tree stump hidden in damp leaves.

"I thought you said you were going to stop disrespecting me?" Corwin asked, brushing bracken from her shins. Freya turned to her in surprise.

"Yeah, in the camp!" she exclaimed. "In front of the soldiers. Out here _I'm_ still in charge, because that way we don't die. If that bothers you then you don't have to come. Besides, I may be wearing the uniform but technically I haven't joined the Fist yet. Until the Duke gets here to agree my rank I'm still legally a private citizen. Now about that, I'm thinking: Captain Freya of Candlekeep."

She preened and flicked her hair with a brazen grin. Freya was widely held to be the most beautiful woman in Baldur's Gate, if not the entire Sword Coast. If that was an exaggeration, Corwin had yet to see one better looking. Her charisma was so magnetic that it was difficult to resist getting swept up into her orbit. Difficult, but not impossible.

"I'm thinking petty officer," Corwin scoffed.

"Or they could assign you to the war-dog division and put you under a beast master," chipped in Safana snarkily.

"Safana, you're pretty charming," said Freya jovially, despite the insult. "See if you can't talk Corwin into raising me up a few ranks."

"'Pretty charming?'" scoffed Safana. "What kind of backward compliment is that?"

"A better one than you deserve," snapped Corwin. "Now say something intelligent or stop talking. For sanity's sake."

Viconia's ruby eyes narrowed shrewdly and she whispered to Rasaad; "Am I the only one getting a sense that Corwin doesn't much like Freya's female friends?"

Rasaad narrowed his eyes at Safana. Irenicus had listed and ruled out all of Freya's companions whom he had tried to persuade to betray her, before he had come to him. Safana's name had been suspiciously absent from the list. Now, under what seemed like the feeblest of excuses, she had returned and was back on almost-civil terms with the werewolf. He leant in to Viconia's ear and spoke in a low voice.

"Corwin and Safana will never get on," he observed. "We should take one or the other."

"Should we? How interesting. It seems we have to take Corwin, so that means you want Safana out of the party. I wonder why?" Viconia whispered back. She slipped her hand up his back to stroke his shoulder. It was as hard as a tree root but she was sure she could massage some of the tension out of it given a chance. Rasaad's breathing quickened at the touch. She stroked his shoulder and smiled approvingly. "How very underhanded of you Rasaad, I didn't know you had it in you to be political."

"I did not mean to be underhanded!" he spluttered, appalled at himself for more reasons than one. Though he was trying inexpertly to be scheming, it was for a greater good. He only meant to deprive Safana of the opportunity to betray Freya to Irenicus.

"You may not have meant it, but progress is progress," purred Viconia. Rasaad pulled back. The Sharran was trying to lure him into the shadows again, by encouraging his deceitful behaviour. "I like Safana, but I have little use for a spare female. I will gladly help you if the opportunity presents itself."

Rasaad slipped deftly from under her fingers and continued after Freya. His tattooed face was tense and troubled. Despite his best efforts, he felt as though he was slipping further and further from Selune's light. Arrow's party had been in a state of near constant infighting, but he had never doubted the righteousness of their battles. Travelling with Freya was a different matter. He was not convinced that the deaths of Lon and Tsolak had been necessary. Yet finding out what had happened to the Selunites of Baldur's Gate was his inescapable duty. Unless Arrow would agree to accept him back into her party, there was no easy way to alter his current course.

"I lose faith in our purpose," Rasaad said unhappily. "We must do better."

They came across the ranger, Minsc and Dynaheir a while later headed to the glade to meet Teleria. He approached her cautiously. Arrow was always at her happiest roaming around outdoors. Perhaps if he spoke to her now, he might find the ranger in a better mood.

"The woods instil a sense of peace in me," Rasaad said to her, after the two of them exchanged stiff greetings. Arrow ground her back teeth. He was trying to strike up a conversation with her _again._ Well if the silent treatment wasn't working then perhaps open rudeness would.

"Indeed. I enjoy the quiet of the woods," she replied, adding icily, "A shame that you are here spoiling it. Minsc! Dynaheir! Let us find those refugees quickly, their families will be worried about them."

"I must say that it is good to be travelling at your side once more," Rasaad tried again. Arrow said nothing. Neither this nor her expression were particularly encouraging but he took a deep breath and plunged on. "I thought that I had found my place in Baldur's Gate. When you walked through the door though, part of me knew that my path would lead me away from the city once more."

"You certainly didn't act like it," replied Arrow frostily.

"I know," replied Rasaad heavily. "I… I had grown comfortable with my life I suppose. My childhood as you know was one of chaos. In my work I found routine and solace."

"And the refugees no doubt found great solace in you," replied Arrow sharply. She finally conceded to look him in the eye, but it was a look of raw hostility. If he was determined to push her to be unkind then so be it. There was such a thing as asking for it. "You should go back to them. I would, if I could."

"I would much rather walk this path than any other," he said, truthfully.

"While I would much rather walk any other than this path," retorted Arrow. "Once again we find ourselves at odds."

"I never wished to be at odds with you, Arowan," he replied quietly. He looked so diminished and sad that for a moment the ranger's compassion got the better of her common sense. She opened her mouth to say something but her jaw locked before the words came out.

" _Rasaad is like a vampire,"_ she told herself. _"Don't invite him in. Getting over him hurt so badly. Let him back into your life and he'll drain you and leave you feeling like an empty husk all over again."_

"Your steps do lead into danger and chaos," Rasaad carried on thoughtfully. "But it is good to travel beside you. In our last battle, as I watched you move, I felt as though I was where I belonged."

" _Oh no. No, no, no, no please no,"_ thought Arrow desperately, but it was no use. She had carried a torch for him since they had first met in Nashkel. Stamping out the flames had taken so much time and self-discipline. He tossed her one little spark of hope and it reignited, blazing as brightly as though it had never been gone. She missed everything about him. Sitting quietly with him while he meditated, walking together in the wood, his sweet inability to grasp humour. _"Idiot!"_ her brain screeched at her _"Arowan, you utter moron! You know exactly what he's going to do! He'll hurt you again like he always does, you know this, just walk away! Walk away!"_

"You were watching me fight?" she asked, wanting him to clarify that statement but also buying herself some more thinking time.

Her common sense screamed at her; _"Don't ask questions just walk away! Do it now!"_ But her legs did not move.

"I- I wasn't staring!" Rasaad babbled hastily. "If that's how it came across I apologise. I only meant that when I surveyed the field, your movements caught my eye."

"Ok then," said Arrow testily. Painful though it was, she forced herself to leave him. Better that she keep the field clear for Imoen. Imoen was more fun than her and, Arrow thought, much prettier. Perhaps he would treat her friend better than he had treated her. If he didn't she would chase him back to Calimport herself.

She strode away from Rasaad so rapidly that she did not watch where she was going, until she had almost walked into the cleric. Viconia's eyes flashed, while Arrow's face spasmed with hatred. Both women found their hands reaching reflexively for their weapons before they came to their senses. Arrow made to walk around her, but as they passed each other the drow caught her arm and leaned into her ear to whisper spitefully.

"He will never forgive you, you know," sneered Viconia. "Not really."

"I do not give a rat's arse whether he does or not," Arrow lied, more to herself than her would-be assassin.

"He blames you for Gamaz's death. I too lost a brother when House DeVir fell," the cleric said shrewishly. "I know his pain, his loss… and his hatred toward all responsible. It is stamped into his soul. Even if he desires you enough to take you back, he will spend the rest of your days together punishing you for it. He won't mean to, but he will."

"Y'know what I think? I think the only desire at work here is yours," replied Arrow. "You want Rasaad for yourself. You always did."

"Ha!" scoffed Viconia, her red eyes flashing angrily. "I could have the moon male any time I wished!"

"Then why don't you?" spat Arrow. "Oh wait… but you tried that didn't you? Many times, and he declined, many times. The mighty, sexually superior Viconia rejected by a mere male. A 'rivvil' male no less. Oh, if your matron mothers could see you now…"

No longer bothering to keep her voice down, the drow let out a stream of insults in her own language. Arrow barged past her to follow Minsc and Boo. Rasaad had no idea what the two women had said to each other, but despite Viconia's haughty expression it was clear that Arrow had won that round.

He watched her sadly as she walked away. Despite making up his mind over and over that they could not be together, he was finding it impossible to let go. If only he could go back and warn himself not to become romantically involved. Their treasured friendship seemed utterly irreparable now.

He was snapped out of his reverie by a grubby piece of parchment shoved roughly into his hands. A crudely drawn animal, possibly a wolf, was battling a sort of giant lizard in a spiked circle. This advertisement had been cobbled together in haste by someone with little artistic talent. Rasaad looked up in confusion at a vociferous peasant man who bounced from one adventurer to the next handing them out.

"Step right up! Would you like to witness the most fearsome battles of our time?" he boomed, "Here, have a flyer!"

Freya glanced disinterestedly at the paper, and was about to drop it on the ground when a deep groove formed between her eyes. She gave the pamphlet a second look, and a third. The others approached her curiously.

"No," she breathed, "It can't be."

Rasaad frowned too and inspected his own parchment more closely. It was an advert for some sort of fighting pit.

"Closed for a time but now returned," Rasaad read slowly. "Witness the peril, the power, the pageantry of the Black Pits!" He paused and looked at Freya. "You don't think… it cannot possibly be the same man."

Freya seized the announcer by his collar, lifting him in both hands so that his face was level with hers. The peasant was so shocked that for a moment his scrawny little legs kept running in the air. He struggled but soon realised that it was futile and went limp with a whimper.

"Tell me who runs these pits?" Freya demanded.

"He calls himself Baeloth the Entertainer!" squealed the frightened man. "I didn't want to work for a drow, I swear, but I ain't got nothing after the crusade! I'm sorry, it's a terrible show! I won't give out his leaflets no more I promise!"

Freya dropped the man, a stunned expression on her chiselled features. He landed heavily on his bottom and scrambled backward hastily. She ignored him and turned to her party.

"Baeloth?" mused Viconia, rolling the name around her tongue. "That name rings a bell."

"Didn't Arrow tell you about her visions?" asked Safana. Then Viconia recalled and nodded. The ranger had mentioned Baeloth, but since they had never got on it had only come up once or twice. Corwin, however, had to be filled in.

Baeloth had managed to capture one of the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn, a young necromancer named Eric, and forced him to battle in his Black Pits. The boy had made a fine pit fighter, aided in brutality by a heavy addiction to numbing potions. His fame had grown rapidly, until word of him reached Irenicus, who bribed Baeloth to be allowed to experiment on him. With the Hooded Man's aid, Eric eventually obliterated the Black Pits and many of its patrons, only to die from numbing potion withdrawal in Baldur's Gate.

A geas had protected Baeloth from Eric's wrath, transporting him to the surface lands. Freya had no love for her deceased brother. She had intended to hang him herself. Nevertheless Baeloth had brought the attention of Irenicus down on all three of Gorion's surviving wards, and she was minded to interrogate him. Rasaad had an entirely different reason to feel his blood boil at the drow's name. His own father had died enslaved in the fighting pits of Calimport. Though that particular pit master was beyond his reach, and probably dead by now, slaying Baeloth was the next best thing.

"Where would these pits be?" Freya asked, her vast shadow falling over the unlucky announcer.

"Just up the path," he sobbed. He curled up like an emaciated, frightened hedgehog. "A new bout should be beginning soon. Please don't hurt me, I was only trying to feed my family!"

" _If Arrow were here she would give him gold or food,"_ Rasaad thought longingly. Freya's charity stretched just far enough to walk around the peasant instead of stepping on him.

A crowd was gathered around a shallow dug-out circle, the torchlight reflecting on their faces. To describe it as a 'pit' was an overstatement. Any normal sized human could step over the wooden spikes lining it with ease. Cages surrounded the rim of the pit. Most of them contained chickens. Freya snorted.

"Come one, come all! See the cream of the Sword Coast's combatant crop. Witness brilliant and bizarre battles in the Black Pits of the one, the only… Baeloth the Entertainer!"

"Well fuck me with a lightening wand!" cried Freya in astonishment. "It really is you!"

"Have we met?" asked Baeloth disdainfully. This was a loaded question. The dream-visions had been strictly one way, so while he knew of Eric and Irenicus, the drow had no idea who Freya was. "But of course, you've heard of me. Who hasn't? Well gather in the gallery my gallants! Tis time for another test twix two titanic terrors in Baeloth's Blackest Pits yet."

"Yeah, I've made up my mind. I'm gonna kill him," said Freya casually to Rasaad. "Want to help?"

"With respect, abbil, I would prefer it if you didn't," said Viconia. She slipped up behind the werewolf and began to stroke her arm with one hand, while playing with her hair with the other. Rasaad had seen this routine before, the drow used it on him frequently. With Freya, however, it seemed to be more effective and their leader stayed her blades for the time being.

"First I give you the wild wonder of the Western kingdoms!" Baeloth waved his arms flamboyantly. "Wise men say only fools rush in to face… the wolverine!"

He raised a tiny cage to the audience, opened it and plonked the reluctant occupant into the pit. It raised its furry nose to sniff the air, then tried to scarper, gnawing frantically at the wooden spikes lining the pit. It had a fat, furry body and a long worm-like tail. The werewolf was not entirely sure what a wolverine was, but she had chewed up enough of these squeaky critters at full moon to know what she was looking at.

"Wait a minute, that's a rat!" pointed out Freya, scandalized.

"I must ask my slanderous spectators to contain their comments please and SHUT UP!" replied Baeloth. "No autographs until the end! Where was I… ah yes… But what wily wonder could conceivably win a war against the wolverine? There is but one answer. That heinous hate-filled horror… the honey badger!"

He tipped a second caged rodent into the pit. This one was a red-brown colour with a big bushy tail. It had no interest in battling the 'wolverine' and instead took a running jump at the edge of the pit. It landed at Baeloth's foot, and the drow booted it back into the pit impatiently.

"Now that was definitely a squirrel," heckled a man in the crowd.

The dazed squirrel stumbled around the pit like a drunkard, ignoring its opponent. The rat continued its gnawing undisturbed. It was not long before the bored audience began booing. Though none of them were so cruel as to pelt the combatants themselves, one of the refugees did suggest that they turn the Black Pit into a firepit and roast the rodents. Times were tough and meat was meat.

"C'mon Viconia, this is inhumane," sighed Freya.

"Since when did you care so much about rats and squirrels?" crooned the cleric, massaging her leader's neck with her long fingers.

"No, I mean to Baeloth," replied Freya. "We really ought to put the poor bugger out of his misery."

Seeing that he was losing his audience, Baeloth teleported the rat back into its cage. He placed it behind him, and the creature immediately resumed its gnawing. Freya would place money on it being free within the hour. The entertainer began to chant another teleportation spell and a new, larger offering materialized into the ring. It was slimy, green and cross.

"I give you, the goblin!" he cried.

"Let me out of here drow! Let me out!" the goblin demanded, waving her small stick furiously. This was more promising. Some of the crowd who had been drifting away meandered slowly back. There was no way that a squirrel was going to defeat the goblin, but there was a good chance of scavenging its carcass for a nice stew after the 'battle' was over.

"You shall have your freedom my freakish friend but first you must fight for it!"

"Maglubiyet take you nightskin! Let me out!" demanded the irate goblin, pointing at her captor threateningly. "Let me out!"

"Woah, what the shit?" cried Freya suddenly, pointing at the creature with her left bastard sword. "He's got a _talking goblin_! I take it all back Baeloth, your show is awesome!"

There was a long silence as everyone stared at her. Even Baeloth found himself momentarily lost for words. Her voice was hoarse and when she raised it, it cut through every other sound in the vicinity. Suddenly all eyes were on the stunning Hero. Nobody made a sound except for Corwin, who let out a despairing little sob.

"You cannot be serious?" groaned the goblin in a croaking voice.

"Amazing!" Freya gasped delightedly. She reached into the pit and lifted the goblin out with one hand by the scruff of her neck. "Say something else!"

"Alright, that's enough!" roared Corwin. "Scram, all of you!"

Corwin's voice broke the spell. The audience had been temporarily entranced by the beguilingly braindead werewolf, but now they started to disperse. The Captain nodded, satisfied that the reputational damage to the Fist had been contained. Freya being this dense while publically wearing their uniform was not the best advertisement that the army could wish for.

Meanwhile Baeloth was having a tantrum over his spoiled show. He cut a woeful figure, moaning plaintively and clutching at his long silver hair. It was such pretty hair, Freya noted, soft, shiny and even nicer than Viconia's. Shame about the body underneath it, and the fact that said hair and body were about to part company. She hefted her sword and gave it an idle twirl.

"What will happen to me? Baeloth Barrityl! Showman of showmen! Entertainer of entertainers!" wailed Baeloth pitifully. Freya shrugged and had her arm half way around her back for her second sword, when Viconia's delicate fingers found their way to her shoulders again. The cleric leaned forward brushing her lips over the werewolf's ear as she spoke and letting her long silver hair dangle over Freya's chest. Rasaad swallowed and looked away from them with a guilty expression.

"I would not wish to see another person like us abandoned to the mob," she implored her leader. Freya raised no objection to this pawing, though she did raise one golden eyebrow. "Drow and werewolves are persecuted wherever we go. I would not see him suffer like you and me. We should stick together the three of us."

"Urgh. Fine!" groaned Freya, though she displayed no sign of any real enthusiasm. "If it makes you happy Viconia. Baeloth, you can come with us."

"You are wise beyond words, Mistresses!" Baeloth grovelled hastily, particularly to Viconia who smiled indulgently as one might at a favoured pet.

"You can't seriously intend to take this drow with us to Dragonspear?" protested Corwin.

"Well isn't this predictable?" Viconia asked Freya in an undertone. "Travelling with 'dogs' and 'spiders' is beneath the pure-bred human Captain. Why don't we have a vote?"

"A vote?" demanded Corwin suspiciously. "Have you been listening to that gnome?"

Glint, despite his superficial timidity, had been taking advantage of his situation to spread his ideology to the other soldiers. According to the quartermaster, some of them were quite taken with the notion of electing their own leaders. The Flaming Fist's pay was often late and lacking, and Duke Silvershield was as unpopular with them as he was with the rest of the city. Corwin privately feared that putting down the crusade might not be enough to stabilise Baldur's Gate. Civil unrest was a greater threat than Caelar in the long-term.

"Actually, voting was something we used to do in Jaheira's party," Viconia replied. "It was one of the very few things about her leadership that I actually liked. I have no objection to taking the male. I vote yes."

"No, obviously no!" retorted Corwin, hand on hip.

"Isn't he pretty?" purred Safana, running her hand up and down the hilt of her dagger suggestively. For a moment Baeloth looked slightly disconcerted, but he quickly recovered his composure. Safana smiled. "I say; yes please! Rasaad?"

The monk was looking at Baeloth with an expression of pure hatred. This was not lost on the drow, but he could not fathom the reason for it. He smiled in what he hoped was an ingratiating way, but Rasaad interpreted it as a smirk.

"My father died in a fighting pit," he spat. "Under the whip of filth like you. I don't just vote no; I vote that we kill you before you can enslave anyone else!"

"Do I get a vote?" croaked the goblin, whose face lit up eagerly at Rasaad's suggestion.

"Party only," said Freya firmly. "I vote yes. That's three to two. Edwin, what say you?"

"What conceivable use could these insolent monkeys have for a sorcerer when they have a Red Wizard of Thay?" muttered Edwin, who had suffered enough misery with Viconia and had no desire to introduce a second drow to the group. "No."

"Understandable," Viconia whispered to Edwin as the group peeled away, leaving poor, forlorn Baeloth all alone. "A male drow might be competition for you. Why, I might end up preferring him to you. We might even have to split up."

Edwin's face lit up at this prospect, like a child who had been handed an unexpected gift. No more sleeping in the ghastly woman's tent curled up at her feet all night! No more picking her silvery hairs out of his robes, or finding that she had used his wands as extra tent pegs. He bounded eagerly back to Baeloth, seized the surprised sorcerer's hand and wrung it in welcome.

"Then again Edwin, it would be cruel to deprive this neophyte of the opportunity to learn at your boots," Edwin beamed. "I have reconsidered my vote! (Yes, Odesseiron, he will make a fine decoy to draw Viconia's bile)."

"And what about you little fellow?" Freya asked the goblin kindly.

"M'Khiin's my name. Of the Grubdoubler clan," she replied, adjusting her tattered tunic.

"You even have a name!" cried Freya ecstatically. M'Khiin blinked at the werewolf incredulously. "Pleasure to meet you 'Mucky.' Hey, would you like to come back to camp with us? You can be our mascot!"

"First the drow and now you'd willingly invite a goblin to join us?" cried Corwin furiously. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"It's a talking-fucking-goblin!" laughed Freya, poking M'Khiin delightedly. "Of course, I want it to join us. Coran is going to shit himself when we get back to Baldur's Gate!"

Viconia broke off from examining her new acquisition (Baeloth had bright eyes, pearly teeth, and healthy strong flanks) to intervene once more. She had no particular interest in the goblin, but she was irked enough by Corwin's nasty remarks about drow to wind her up for the sake of it.

"Is it any worse than having drow among you Captain? Or a werewolf?" Viconia enquired in a tone of offended disdain. She fluttered her ruby eyes at Freya as she said this. Corwin noticed and made a noise like she was preparing a spit-ball. This drow obviously knew her audience. It wouldn't be long before Viconia had the witless 'Hero' eating out of her little elf hands. Viconia knew it and smirked; "Where does one draw the line for what is acceptable?"

"Generally speaking?" snapped Corwin, "At goblins!"

"Yeah, normally I'd agree with you," Freya replied imploringly, "But this one is special. It can _talk!_ "

"What…? How…?" Corwin gaped at the golden Hero, temporarily speechless. Then she burst out, "How dumb actually are you?"

"Excuse me Freya?" interjected Rasaad, "But surely you must have met hundreds of goblins in your travels?"

"Thousands I expect," confirmed Freya happily. "Although the encounters tended to be…" she shot a guilty look at M'Khiin, "…brief."

"I see." M'Khiin said pithily.

"Not this time though!" Freya assured her. She clapped M'khiin so hard on the shoulder that the little woman stumbled and landed on her face in the mud. Freya hauled her back to her feet at once, apologising but still laughing. "Sorry Mucky. So what do you say?"

"Can't," rasped M'Khiin. "Not while Baeloth travels with you."

"Ah come on," begged Freya. "The camp is huge, you'll barely see him if you don't want to. We've got food and shelter and when all this is over you can come adventuring with me and Coran. Maybe there are other talking goblins out there, we could find you a little friend! How about it?"

"I'll stick around this camp of yours then," agreed M'Khiin, "So long as no one tries to kill me."

"This is insane. You are insane!" Corwin fumed at Freya. She pulled out a piece of letterheaded paper, wrote a hasty note and sealed it with the stamp of the Flaming Fist. She had to heat the wax on one of her own fire-arrows, and she glared resentfully as she tossed the wasted missile aside. "Show this to the first person you see or you'll be skewered on sight," she said to M'Khiin. The tiny woman snatched the letter and scurried away in the direction they pointed. Corwin sighed and glared at Freya. "If that thing hurts anybody I'm holding you responsible."

Rasaad opened his mouth to say something else, but Viconia placed a delicate hand on his arm to pause him. It was a nice arm, as solid with muscle as it looked. She let her fingers play over it far longer than she needed to.

"Don't tell her that all goblins can talk," she whispered, with a devilish smile. "It's far more fun this way."

The party continued to scout the area ahead of the bridge but there was little else to find. They came across a rather haggard looking dwarf at the entrance to a mine. He told them that the excavation team he had been guarding had fallen victim to swarms of undead. Corwin and Freya agreed that they did not have time for a dungeon crawl. Between them, they decided that the best thing to do would be to have Baeloth and Edwin pelt the tunnel with fireballs before collapsing the entrance.

Rasaad suggested that they might want to check for survivors first, but it was too late. Baeloth needed to impress his new mistresses and Edwin never passed up an opportunity for incineration. Flames burst forth from each of their hands. Anguished wails (of what the monk desperately hoped were undead) echoed to the surface. Soon the mage and the sorcerer got into a competition, summoning enormous fireballs in an attempt to outdo each other. When they were done, Corwin fired a detonating arrow at the lip of the tunnel and brought the whole thing crashing down in a pile of rubble.

"I feel bad about not checking first," sighed Safana, mirroring Rasaad's own feelings but for a very different reason. "There might have been treasure down there. Don't expect me to risk my life for the Fist if there's no money in it. I'm going back to camp."

"Oh no, don't!" Freya whined like a Labrador who had been locked out of the dining room during Sunday lunch. "Are you still mad at me?"

"Am I still mad?" Safana parroted. "My man cheated on me with the family dog, and your question is 'am I mad?'"

"I'm sorry Saffy, I really am," the werewolf hung her head. "I guess I just didn't think that you two were that serious."

Even Safana had to admit to herself that this was not wholly unreasonable. She and Coran had both had multiple affairs during their short relationship. As long as she was first and foremost in his affections, the thief had no serious expectation that the lecherous elf would keep it in his pants. Freya though… that was different. Safana had not had many female friends in her life, so she was having trouble putting her finger on quite _why_ it was different. But it was.

"I'll tell you what," she smiled at the werewolf, "Next time we talk I want a present. A gemstone, a piece of jewellery… something that shows me how special I am. Something valuable. You can manage that, can't you?"

Freya rolled her eyes fondly. Safana was nothing if not predictable.

"I suppose a regular diamond isn't going to hack it?"

"You're starting to get the picture sweetheart, but a diamond would be a good start," crooned Safana. She held out her palm and smiled sweetly. Freya sighed and fumbled in her pocket. "Now go on, find me something sparkly to match my eyes. Fetch!"

With a teasing backward glance at Baeloth, Safana set off in the direction of camp. Corwin muttered something that sounded like, 'good riddance.' Rasaad avoided Viconia's searching red eyes. She knew he had wanted rid of Safana but he did not trust her enough to tell her why. Irenicus had made him an offer too and if Viconia found out about it, she was sure to slip herself around his body whispering 'do it, do it,' trying to drag him into the shadows. Corrupting him had practically become her hobby.

In a different part of the forest Arrow, Minsc and Dynaheir had located Teleria. There was something very off about the elf. A mad, vacant aura that put the ranger in mind of Xzar. She was waiting in a glade surrounded by eerie statues, each one locked in an expression of surprise and fear. These were recent instalments, free from the moss, ivy and bird droppings that coated other rocks in the area. Even from a distance they made her uneasy, but the closer she got the more certain she felt that these were no ordinary sculptures.

"And here you are," smiled Teleria, spreading her arms in welcome.

"I'm here," replied Arrow fiercely, "And these statues are too detailed to be carved! They're the missing refugees aren't they?"

"Do you like them?" Teleria giggled shrilly. She flittered from one statue to another, admiring them.

"No." For a moment Arrow forgot that she was not her heroic sister. Throwing caution to the wind, she fired her bow at Teleria as Minsc rushed forward with his broadsword. Dynaheir screamed a warning but it was too late. A pair of red eyes flashed from the treeline and the Beserker froze mid strike, his great body turned to stone.

"They are my pride and my legacy," boasted the mad artist, "But they are not complete! Now I will add another piece to my collection. You!"

The mad elf laughed and kissed Minsc's granite lips. Dynaheir let out the sort of furious Rashemen roar that Arrow had often heard from Minsc but never from her. The witch's rage was futile though. A basilisk came slithering out of the woods, its forked tongue flickering curiously in and out. The ranger had seen a basilisk before, but it had already been dead. She had no idea how to deal with a live one and could only watch as Dynaheir's body petrified before her eyes. Teleria sang with glee as her pet's eyes found Arrow's.

There was a sound like crunching ice that seemed to spread from her feet and hands. Arrow felt her skin stiffen and calcify. She could not move any part of her, not even her eyes. The crystallization was spreading deeper inside of her, hardening her muscles, organs and blood. It was a strange feeling, not exactly painful, but irresistible and chilling. She could feel it reaching her mind as piece by piece her thoughts shut down. Her whole world turned dark, cold and silent.

All except for Teleria's deranged laughter ringing on and on and on.


	15. Bugger! A Basilisk!

"You are a mighty, meaty mammoth of muscle!" Baeloth observed pleasantly. "Have you ever considered mulching monsters in a professional melee?"

"No," replied Rasaad, his brow as knotted as his tense back. He'd already had severe doubts about Freya's morally questionable party, but Baeloth's presence had multiplied his concerns tenfold.

It was drizzling, but only lightly and they were sheltered under the trees. The damper weather had lured out hungry birds who added their chirruping to the patter of drops. Usually the woods instilled a sense of tranquillity in the monk, but not today. He wondered whether Arrow was having a better time. Probably. She loved the forest.

"Alas, I am not able to ascertain why I attract your abhorrence and animosity," sighed Baeloth.

They had been walking for a long time and the drow was exhausted. Physical activity had never been his forte and back home there had been little need for it. This was not to say he was lazy, far from it. He rose after but a few hours rest to oversee the preparation of the pits and review the day's schedules. Then he would check the condition of his fighters, perform for hours on end, then micromanage the accounts at the end of the day. Lolth forbid that the numbers should fail to add up when the mistresses came to inspect them!

"You are filth of the lowest order!" spat Rasaad. "Forcing your fellow men to fight for your entertainment! Enslaving people! Profiteering from the misery of others!"

"Profiteering?" repeated Baeloth, in a politely puzzled tone. He looked to Viconia, genuinely baffled. "What is this pleasingly proportioned personage pontificating about?"

Viconia smiled at Baeloth with an expression that (by her standards) was almost benevolent. Pfaug the Duergar had been a revolting creep but his company had one redeeming feature. That was how refreshing it was to be in the company of another exile from the Underdark. Someone else whose frame of reference was so completely different from that of everyone else they met. Baeloth offered the same novelty but without the stench. She understood his confusion. No drow would need to have it explained to them why Baeloth could not possibly be personally profiting the Black Pits, nor any other venture he engaged in.

"As a male drow, Baeloth's profits from the Black Pits would have been siphoned by the matron mothers," Viconia explained to Rasaad.

"I brought in the big bucks for house Barrityl with my boundless bonanzas and beguiling banter," added Baeloth, proudly.

"But you were not forced to be a slave master?" demanded Rasaad. He raised his voice to Viconia, in a way that made her want to have him whipped. "Could he not have chosen another path?"

"Of course!" Baeloth nodded. "My own belated brother, Baeron, did just that. He took it into his head to serve as concubine to the Mistress of another house. Not a strong enough house to protect him as it transpired… Baeron had an unfortunate... independent streak." Baeloth shivered.

"They murdered your brother?" blinked Rasaad, horrified.

"Well... I didn't aspire to further antagonize my aggrieved aunts by asking," admitted Baeloth alliteratively. "But it has been a long time so probably. Yes. He will almost certainly be dead by now." The drow looked a little uneasy for a moment and added, "Lolth willing."

"That's a bummer," Freya understated after a long and uncomfortable silence. "I think we've seen everything there is to see here. Let's head back to camp for a rest before we cross the river, eh?"

Rasaad did not know how to feel about what he had been told. Baeloth was without question an evil person, it was clear that he enjoyed his work, whether he had a choice or not. Yet it seemed that drow culture rendered good alignment near impossible. Viconia was right, Arrow could not survive in the Underdark. His mind drifted to thoughts that made him uneasy. How would he have ended up if _he_ had been born a drow? And what had Viconia done that was so wicked that even her fellow dark elves had rejected her?

That was when he saw the first of Teleria's victims, a woman petrified in both senses of the word, and far too detailed to be a mere statue. He sounded a warning, then realised that he had been so lost in his thoughts that he had been striding some distance ahead of the others. He turned and pelted back the way he had come, skidding to a halt in front of the party in a flurry of dead leaves.

"Rasaad! What is it?" asked Corwin urgently.

"There is dark magic up ahead!" the monk panted. "I found a woman turned to solid granite. She looked like she was screaming at something."

"Bugger! A basilisk!" swore Freya, running her hand through her long yellow hair. "Nothing for it, you'll have to blindfold me."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Viconia enquired, raising a silver eyebrow.

"For me, yes. For you, no." Freya replied. She ripped a strip of fabric from her Fist-issue cloak causing Corwin to wince. "You all need to head back to camp by another route. I'll meet you there."

"Be careful. I saw a dead basilisk once," Rasaad said. "It had been lurking around Durlag's tower, but luckily someone else had killed the creature by the time we got there. They are a formidable size even without their stunning glare."

"I'm all for you fighting your enemies blindfolded," Corwin interjected meanly, "But how will you find it?"

"Once I get a bit closer I'll be able to smell it," said Freya. "There's a good chance that it'll take one sniff of me and sod off, reptiles usually do, but if it does decide to attack me I can take it. Without its glare it's only a lizard when all's said and done."

"What about the Hooded Man?" asked Corwin.

"I'll risk it," Freya replied evasively. The truth was that like a basilisk, Irenicus also had a distinctive smell. An indescribably wrong smell, death-like, yet he was unlike any zombie or ghoul she had ever encountered. There was a hint of elf in his aroma, though he did not look like one. If by chance, he happened upon her in the woods then she could probably smell him in time to run for it. However, she was not keen to advertise that fact. If it occurred to Irenicus then he might take steps to mask his scent.

Leaving the others behind, Freya began cautiously up the path, blindfold in hand. As she approached the statue that Rasaad had warned her of, she tied the strip of material about her eyes and drew her swords. At first she could use them only as guide-sticks, slashing the undergrowth to avoid tripping over obstacles. She made quite a racket and it wasn't long before her prey came to her. Freya sniffed and grinned, then she swung at the creature.

Without transforming, her sense of smell was not directional, and she was relying on her hearing. Unsurprisingly her first blow missed and she rained down four more before finally hitting her mark on the fifth stroke. She felt it break through the scales, but not very deep. The creature let out a shrill screech and Freya heard the sound of hurrying footsteps before she smelled the elf.

"Back off lady, there's a basilisk!" yelled Freya, slashing and missing again. The great lizard reared and she struck at where its voice seemed to emanate from. This time her blow struck one of the statues, knocking off a loose piece of rock and jarring the werewolf's arm where it hit. She swore and dropped her right-hand sword, but she still had her left. Her next lunge caught the basilisk on the snout. Now that she had located the creature she jumped onto it's back, scrabbling blindly with her fingers to find its eyes.

"You vandalized one of my statues!" Teleria wailed. "I will not let you desecrate my art! Die!"

Freya braced herself for an attack, but all that followed the threat was a feeble little pebble from a slingshot. It pinged harmlessly off of her armour. Deciding that the basilisk was the greater threat, she found its eye with her finger. She plunged her sword into its open mouth, hoping that the creature was dead before she pressed her fingers into its sockets. The tough, gooey eyeballs put up a resistance, but Freya's strength was magically enhanced and finally they popped. Her fingers jolted inside suddenly through the jellied interior and she gagged. Being an adventurer could be fucking disgusting.

Placing one enormous boot on the unfortunate basilisk's head, Freya seized the hilt of her sword and wrenched it free. More pebbles plinked harmlessly from her breastplate, but the beast lay dead. She ripped off her blindfold in triumph.

The werewolf grinned at Teleria, but her smile quickly faded as she watched the elf release her slingshot and a much larger rock came flying at her face. There was a loud crack, and Freya reeled backward clutching her nose. She swore and lunged across the clearing at the elf, but her target slipped through a dimension door. Freya tried to stem the blood pouring from her broken nose as she waited for Teleria to rematerialize.

Suddenly pain ripped through her. The mad artist's cackle rang in her ears as she appeared behind her, reached around and stabbed Freya in the rib cage. Between her streaming nose and punctured lung, each breath was agony. Only raw adrenaline gave Freya the energy to stab backward with her remaining blade. Teleria staggered, mortally wounded but still laughing insanely.

With a final surge of effort, Freya brought her sword in a wide arc and opened Teleria's throat.

The artist keeled backward making gurgling noises as the light faded from her eyes, but Freya had no time to savour victory. Anxious not to be found alone and unconscious, she swallowed every healing potion she had in quick succession. It was not enough, the dagger had been coated in acid and she would need to get the wound looked at properly by a cleric.

Still, she was not about to leave her precious sword behind. Scrambling on her hands and knees, ignoring the pain, she combed through the grassy glade. She looked for the statue she had damaged, the sword must be near that. Then her eyes widened in recognition.

"Oh, bleeding hell Minsc," she groaned. "What a way to go! Sorry mate."

A quick glance around told her that Arrow, Dynaheir and the missing refugees had all suffered the same fate. There would be time to feel bad about that later though. Right now, Freya needed to save herself. She rummaged in the grass by Minsc's stone feet, retrieved her blade and then began the slow, agonizing task of dragging herself back to camp.


	16. Edwin Fails to Murder Dynaheir: II

"Any other bloke in the army would give a year's wages to be in your place right now," rasped Freya. Glint lifted her breast with one hand so that he could tend the puncture wound underneath with the other. "Yet here you are complaining."

"Don't try to speak," said the gnome tenderly.

"Is that because it will make the wound worse?" Freya grinned, "Or because I'm getting on your nerves?"

"Both actually," said Glint pleasantly, peering around her oversized curves, "But those are only minor considerations. I really want you to stop talking because you are dribbling blood on my head every time you open your mouth."

Freya nodded vaguely and settled back down on the bedroll, trying to ignore the way the cleric was threading a vicious looking needle and eyeing her wound with intent. Despite Glint's amiable disposition, she got the impression that the gnome did not like her very much. She couldn't fathom why. The two of them barely knew each other.

She would much rather Viconia were the cleric healing her, but her party had been gone for hours. As soon as she had managed to croak out what had happened to Arrow's party both Edwin and Rasaad had set off at a run. She'd had no choice but to send Corwin and the two drow after them. Rasaad was so distraught that there was no telling what he might do to Edwin if the Red Wizard started openly gloating over Dynaheir's death.

Freya was sorry that her former party members were dead, of course, but her grief was somewhat muted by Skie. Her fellow officer had been by her side every moment that she was not required for drills, stroking her long blonde hair and fretting over her wound. Admittedly, Freya had been hamming it up for Skie's benefit, much to Glint's irritation. She waited for her party to return with some trepidation though. Rasaad would surely be devastated by her sister's demise.

Rasaad was, indeed, not taking it well. He was holding Arrow's frozen form and telling her how sorry he was that he had not been there to protect her, while his tears ran down her stone shoulder. He could not believe that she was really gone. He would never hold her in his arms or trace patterns in her freckles again. Behind him, Viconia made a retching noise.

"Desist your pathetic snivelling male!" she ordered harshly. "Baeloth, end this nauseating display before I vomit."

"Stand back please my lamenting lovelorn lackwit!" cried Baeloth, with a swish of his glossy hair. "And watch me revive this ranger of rubble!"

"Yes, yes and I will tend to Dynaheir," Edwin volunteered quietly, a cunning smile tugging at the corners of his lips. While the others were distracted with Arrow, he snuck up to the immobilized witch with a potion of explosions hidden up his sleeve.

The monk saw Baeloth start his incantation and stepped sharply out of the way, blinking his damp eyes hopefully. There was a flash of energy from Baeloth's long, nimble fingers. At first nothing happened and Rasaad feared that the spell had failed. Then slowly, Arowan's granite fingers began to turn pink and flex, the war cry that she had been yelling at Teleria finally escaped her, as did the arrow she had been about to fire.

It launched, still half-stone, from her liberated bow and sailed into Edwin's elbow. He yowled with pain and dropped the potion of explosions. Everyone saw it and the moment it fell seemed to go on forever. It landed in a patch of soft, wavy grass by his feet as the party held their breaths, but the landing was gentle and it did not smash.

"You were going to throw that at Dynaheir!" cried Rasaad, outraged.

"R- Rasaad?" Arrow whispered weakly.

Completely distracted, the monk rushed forward to catch her as she staggered forward. She clung tightly to him in relief and shock. The warmth of his hands and neck contrasted sharply with the coldness of the stone. Once the petrification had taken full effect, she had not been aware and thinking _as such_ , but now she could remember what it was like. Alive but not alive. She shivered in his arms.

Rasaad was so relieved that he half-crushed her, burying his face into her hair. Arrow was alive, warm, and here with him. Nothing else mattered. It wasn't long before the ranger pulled away though. She had been frozen for hours with her bowstring drawn back. Her arms especially ached badly. She backed off from his embrace looking around. That was when she saw Baeloth for the first time.

The others would not have imagined it possible for someone who had moments ago been a statue to move so fast. She shot a fire arrow at him in such a smooth, rapid movement that Baeloth had no time to react. Things might have gone very badly indeed for the drow, had Rasaad not knocked her bow away, causing the arrow to strike the ground.

"He just saved your life, you ungrateful little cockroach!" screeched Viconia.

"Arrow, please, calm down," begged Rasaad.

"Don't you know who that is?" she yelled. "He's Baeloth the Entertainer! The pit master!"

"Yes, I know, but he's working with us now," the monk explained.

"You expect me to just let him go?" screamed Arrow, "After what he did to my brother? We should cart him back to Baldur's Gate in chains!"

"He is in my party," Rasaad said placatingly. Not so long ago he had been minded to beat Baeloth to death himself, but Viconia was right. He had saved Arrow and the Selunite owed him for that. "You know how I feel about pit fighting, my own father died in one, but…"

"Pit fighting be damned!" Arrow cut him off, though it was clear that after her ordeal she was having trouble holding herself upright. "He sold Eric's body to the audience, and not just the pit fighters either, there were others!"

This was news to Captain Corwin, who had not been sold on having drow in the party in the first place. She crossed the glade to stand shoulder to shoulder with Arowan. Both archers had their hands on their bows and were glaring at Baeloth threateningly.

"That wasn't obligatory, they chose to do that!" protested Baeloth. "And if by 'others' you mean Bubbles, she was a professional courtesan who signed a contract. None of my performers were ever forced into such acts. But if they wished to receive sponsorship, the patrons usually required something in return. It was Eric's own choice!"

Suddenly there was a loud bang that made them all jump. Corwin had snatched the potion of explosions from Edwin, who had been sneakily taking aim at Dynaheir once more. The captain threw it as hard as she could into the branches of the nearest tree. It shattered in the canopy and blew up, showering them all with splinters and leaves. With a cuff to the back of his head, she started directing Edwin, at arrow-point, to revive the refugees. She still associated Minsc and Dynaheir with Freya and Viconia suspected that the Captain was leaving them till last out of spite.

"You say Eric chose to sleep with his 'sponsors' of his own free will. But if he had declined, he would have faced opponents who _were_ selling their bodies?" demanded Arrow. "And they would have been gifted better armour and weapons for it. It would have put him at a disadvantage. Right?"

"Naturally," responded Baeloth.

"So, refusing would have been a death sentence?" Arrow snarled. "That's not much of a choice."

"It was _all_ a death sentence, my disapproving dolt!" Baeloth cried, waving his slender arms dismissively. "They all died eventually. Besides it really wasn't my department."

"What do you mean?" she asked suspiciously.

"I was the showman," said Baeloth. "My mistresses managed the other matters. They delivered Bubbles and the others, I just provided accommodation."

"Arowan, I also thought he should be punished at first," said Rasaad, "But I fear he may genuinely have had little choice."

"Choice or no choice, he enjoyed it!" cried Arrow angrily. "You didn't see it. I did!"

A breeze picked up, sweeping more leaves from the poor, exploded tree. They swept down over the party sticking to their clothes and hair. Rasaad took a breath.

"Sometimes people enjoy the bad things they are forced to do. I… I enjoyed stealing," he confessed calmly. "The challenge of picking a pocket and getting away with it. The thrill of unpacking a stolen purse, not knowing what treasures we would find inside. Sharing the winnings with my brother. It was wrong, I had to do it and I enjoyed it. But the fact that I enjoyed it does not change the fact that my circumstances forced me into it."

"This is different," said Arrow testily. Then she sagged from exhaustion and relented. "Edwin and Baeloth, if you can free the remaining refugees that should go a small way toward redeeming yourselves."

The wizards got to work freeing the captives, though Rasaad had to run back to camp for Stone to Flesh scrolls. He came back sooner than expected. He was riding uncomfortably on the back of the enormous and fully healed werewolf that was Freya. She was harder to ride than a horse and he was not sure where to put his hands. As soon as he was in sight of the others he dismounted and ran the rest of the way, but the wolf easily outstripped him and got to Minsc and Dynaheir first.

Poor, unfortunate Dynaheir woke from her granite prison to a dripping, pungent dog-tongue slurping her face. She screamed at the top of her lungs as the last of the refugees dispersed, confused and disorientated. Finally there was nobody left to tend to but Minsc. This had to be done carefully as it was clear from his stance that he had been turned to stone in the grip of a berserker rage.

"Thanks," mumbled Arrow shakily, as everyone backed away from Minsc's flailing sword and Dynaheir wiped Freya's slobber from her nose. "I was _petrified_ I'd never get out of that. Plus, Ilmatari really aren't supposed to get _stoned._ "

"Your punning is the thing I hated most about travelling with you," remarked Viconia darkly, "Which is impressive, since it tops a very long list of things I hated about you."

"My puns _rock_ ," replied Arrow. She considered punning the highest form of wit. None of their companions had ever appreciated it. Except Xan, Viconia remembered with a flicker of annoyance, who had a similarly deficient sense of humour.

"Minsc failed to protect you both…" wept Minsc, sinking to his broad knees as he regained his senses.

"Thine efforts to fend off the basilisk were admirable," Dynaheir reassured him patiently. She patted his bald head but the Rashemen man continued to mope.

"We couldn't ask for a _boulder_ warrior," Arrow added, starting to enjoy herself.

"Seriously you need to stop," commanded Corwin, "Or I will order the Fist mages to turn you back to stone myself."

"Alright you've made your feelings _crystal_ clear," sighed Arrow who was running out of rock-based jokes. "It's obvious we're never going to wipe the _slate_ clean but I'll never take my freedom for _granite_ again."

Minsc had found a new reason to be distraught. Boo, his faithful animal companion, was missing. He checked his shoulder, the grass around his feet and all through his clothes, Then his sausage like fingers started to explore various other crevices in search of his familiar.

"Never mind, we shalt find thou another hamster," comforted Dynaheir.

"Boo is no ordinary hamster!" howled Minsc, "He is a giant miniature space hamster. He cannot be replaced!"

"Your rodent ran away while you were stone," Edwin said harshly. He was still sore about missing another chance to slay Dynaheir. He added spitefully under his breath, "Smart animal."

Yet Minsc was insistent that Boo would never have abandoned him of his own volition. For the next hour the party combed the grass, Freya sniffing around with her great canine muzzle. They called his name and Minsc scattered cheese crumbs on every rock to try and lure him out. It was no use. Finally Freya turned back into human form and approached Minsc, shaking her head regretfully.

"He's not here!" she called, and the others ceased searching. "I can't smell a trace of him anywhere. Unless… unless he's stone too. I couldn't smell any of you when you were stone, that's why I assumed you'd died. I knocked a piece out of you, Minsc, when I was fighting the basilisk blind."

"Minsc has no injury! You must have cut off Boo!" cried the ranger joyfully. Freya bit her lip, hoping that she had only knocked the loosely attached rodent from his shoulder, and not sliced the hamster in half.

They carefully picked through the grass near to where Minsc had been standing. Trying to find a tiny hamster statue. Viconia and Edwin declined to assist and Corwin was growing increasingly impatient.

"It isn't here, let's move on!" the Captain commanded.

"He must be!" frowned Freya. She closed her grey eyes and replayed the fight in her mind. Blindly swiping at the basilisk, knocking Boo from Minsc's statue, that mad laughter. She remembered Teleria's feeble slingshot pellets bouncing harmlessly off her as she slayed the basilisk. Ripping off her blindfold in triumph only to see a much larger rock hurtling toward her nose… "Over here!" she cried suddenly.

The Hero of Baldur's Gate bounded over to the basilisk corpse, and sure enough there was a (mercifully intact) tiny stone Boo. She dropped the hamster into Minsc's grateful hands.

"How did you know?" he cried ecstatically.

Grumbling that the task was beneath him, but with Corwin's bow still trained on his temple, Edwin cast the stone to flesh spell. The hamster squeaked loudly and scurried up Minsc's sleeve to hide. Presently he emerged on the berserker's broad shoulder where he gave himself a tongue-bath to cleanse his blood-encrusted fur.

"Teleria put him in her slingshot when her bullets weren't hard enough to hurt me," grinned Freya. She was feeling quite pleased with herself for figuring it out. "That's my dried blood on his back. She broke my nose with him!"

"Clever Boo!" cried Dynaheir, who was still furious with Freya for taking on Edwin.

"Your hamster is growing on me," Corwin admitted.

"You hear that Boo?" crooned Minsc happily. "You broke the nose of the Hero of Baldur's Gate! This is something, yes? Hers is a notoriously difficult butt to kick, but Boo can do it!"

Freya scowled, feeling like she deserved points for finding the hamster instead of everyone gloating over her broken nose. She did not have long to dwell on it however. Arrow was most insistent that they return to the burned out inn to check on the rescued refugees.

"I thought you weren't coming back!" cried Herod.

"She almost didn't," Viconia replied, in a tone that made it clear that Arrow's survival was a great disappointment. "Teleria is dead. She was petrifying refugees for art, but we did our best to restore them. The ranger and her incompetent sidekicks managed to get themselves petrified as well."

"We heard what you did. Thank the gods that the Hero of Baldur's Gate was there to save the day!" cried Herod, smiling at Freya indulgently. "You know I used to buy into that whole thing about Caelar being the servant of all gods but now I'm sure it must be you, Freya! I took up a collection among the refugees and we'd like you to have the money as a reward."

"Thanks," shrugged Freya indifferently. She reached for the money, though this paltry sum was smaller than some of her recent bar tabs.

"Please keep it," insisted Arrow. Freya blinked at her in surprise and annoyance. "You need it more. The Hero was just happy to help."

Herod looked up at the bemused werewolf with shining eyes.

"Such generosity!" he gushed. "Such selflessness! You will always have friends here, Freya of Candlekeep. Farewell on your travels."

Arrow rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Viconia, on the other hand, had plenty to say about her leader's charity.

"Your actions were as incomprehensible as they were misguided!" snapped Viconia. "The reward they offered wasn't a hundredth of the going rate for slaying a basilisk. It wouldn't even cover one of those Stone to Flesh scrolls we had to waste on them. Why didn't you take it?"

"I was going to!" protested Freya. "Arrow's the one who told them to keep it!"

"You really shouldn't accept rewards from the poor," Arrow told her as they made their way back to camp. "When people are that desperate you should use your strength to help them for their sake, not in the hope that they'll pay you back."

"Fucking hell, you sound like Coran!" groaned Freya. "He's always lecturing me about the bloody poor. It's a pity you two were just a one-night thing, you'd have been perfect for each other!"

There was a choking noise behind them. Arrow looked over her shoulder to see Rasaad staring at her, stunned. His wide brown eyes passed from shock, to hurt, to blazing anger.

He stormed past them both in the direction of the camp. Freya, who sometimes had difficulty relating to human hearing, had not realised that he was close enough to catch her words. She doggy-grinned apologetically at Arrow, who shrugged.

"I don't care," she said defiantly, willing herself to mean it. "I didn't do anything wrong. Maybe if I'm lucky he'll stop trying to talk to me now."


	17. Camp Brawl

Rasaad's reaction to Baeloth had been bad, and Arrow's worse but neither of their responses could hold a candle to the shrieking bundle of pink-haired hatred that was Imoen. In all their years at Candlekeep neither Arrow nor Freya had ever seen her like this. She had emerged from her tent still headachy and at first she barely registered the new addition to Freya's group. She wanted to know that Freya was healed and Arrow was rescued and then whether they had heard any news of Khalid.

Then Viconia let slip Baeloth's name and all hell broke loose.

"YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED ERIC! I'LL KILL YOU!"

This was not, strictly speaking, true. Baeloth's purchasing Eric for his fighting pits and introducing him to Irenicus had certainly contributed to the Bhaalspawn's untimely demise. Yet ultimately it had been severe withdrawal from numbing potions, and not Baeloth, which had finished him off. These fine distinctions meant nothing to Imoen though. Her very essence was blended from pieces of the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn's souls. She had loved them all unconditionally. Baeloth's actions had led to Eric's death and she would have her revenge if she could.

"Imoen!" cried Freya, holding the struggling twisting girl in her muscular arms. Suddenly she dropped her with a yelp and looked down at her shoulder, goggling as though she could not believe her eyes. It was dripping with blood. "You bit me!"

Imoen rushed at Baeloth, knife drawn, but Rasaad plucked it skilfully from her hand as she passed him. She tried to keep running at the drow, apparently intent on attacking him barehanded, but the Selunite caught her by the wrist and spun her around.

"My friend, you must calm yourself!" he insisted. The monk was quite alarmed by this loss of self-discipline. Imoen yanked furiously to free her wrist but it was pointless, he was too strong. He did have a weak spot, however, and she kneed him in it hard. Rasaad's eyes bulged. He let out a noise between a grunt and a whimper and keeled over, his body curling protectively around his crotch.

"Imoen you bit me!" Freya repeated, outraged.

"Stop!" yelled Arrow, placing herself between Imoen and Baeloth. "Immy please, you have to stop this."

"Alright, I will," agreed Imoen breathing heavily. Arrow relaxed and Baeloth stepped forward spreading his arms in a disarming gesture. Perhaps he hoped to use his charm to talk her around. His and Freya's combined charisma had persuaded both Rasaad and Freya not to hurt him. He was confident that this harmless little girl could be reasoned with.

"In my defence my tempestuous terror, I never laid a finger on Eric," the drow pointed out. "He burned down my business and would have blasted poor Baeloth to a bundle of bloody bones if he- ARRGH!"

The drow was cut short by Imoen who, it transpired, was lying and had a second dagger. She darted forward and plunged it into the drow's stomach repeatedly. The savagery of the attack allowed her three good piercings before anyone stopped her.

What followed was twenty minutes of unbridled chaos. Viconia summoned her flaming sword and made for Imoen but was forced to drop it by Arrow, who shot her in the shoulder. The ranger, in turn, was tackled to the ground by Corwin, who was eager to avoid a bloodbath. Unfortunately the Flaming Fist soldiers took her involvement as their cue to wade in and arrest Arowan's party. Before he knew what was happening, Minsc found himself swamped by a dozen soldiers. Corwin dropped Arrow and rushed to break it up.

Edwin, seizing his opportunity, made a beeline for Dynaheir. Witch and wizard locked eyes across the camp and each started casting defensive spells whilst summoning projectiles to hurl at each other. Arrow and Viconia, who had a deep mutual loathing, ignored everybody else and charged each other. Safana slipped into the expanding melee, but the thief was only pretending to fight. In reality she was dancing from fighter to fighter, skilfully slitting their purses while they were distracted. Rasaad hobbled to his feet and tried to calm the others down but nobody was in any mood to listen to Selune's soothing influence. They were hot, tired and in a foul mood. Fists and elbows flew unprovoked at his face, and in the end the monk had little option but to defend himself.

Rasaad kicked out at Officer Brielle and five more Fists piled on him in response. As he knocked them down in a flurry of strikes and punches, he imagined that each one of them had Coran's face. He knew his feelings were not rational or fair. Yet the thought of another man replacing him in Arrow's affections made him sick to his stomach.

Meanwhile, Corwin was having trouble controlling her people and the brawl was still spreading like wildfire. Red and purple missiles hurtled overhead, colliding with sparkling explosions in mid-air, as Edwin and Dynaheir fought their duel. Arrow and Viconia grappled over a campfire, scattering glowing embers into the nearest tent. It was soon engulfed in flames. Bence, whose tent it was, managed to commandeer a section of officers away from the fight to start putting it out. Yet the ranger and cleric battled on undeterred.

"Do something!" Corwin bellowed at Freya.

"Sorry Sir, I'm sitting this one out!" the werewolf called back. She had seized Imoen in an attempt to prevent her launching any further attacks on Baeloth. "Skie! Safana!" she yelled. "Grab the chains out of my pack!"

Normally Freya's dwarven-forged chains were reserved for full moon transformations, but clearly it was going to be necessary to restrain Imoen. Being confronted with a man who had enslaved one of her Bhaalspawn had roused in her aggression to the point of insanity.

Glint and M'Khiin ducked and wove around the legs of the scuffling tall-folk, trying to get to Baeloth before it was too late. In Glint's mind this meant 'before it was too late to save him.' Whereas the goblin wanted to get to him before it was 'too late to finish him off.' They each skidded to a halt over his body and soon ended up in a miniature skirmish of their own. If you could truly describe swatting at each other with their eyes shut as a fight.

"There! That should hold her!" exclaimed Skie, locking the last padlock shut over Imoen's chains. "Hey! That hurt!"

Skie was by no means injured. In the rumpus, a pair of scuffling soldiers had tripped over her ankle. She was more astonished by the disrespect than hurt. However, at the first whiff of danger to Skie, Freya's head snapped up and her wolfish eyes narrowed.

"ENOUGH"

The Hero's voice echoed through the camp, cutting over the noise as easily as though they had all been fighting in whispers.

It was as if the entire camp had been frozen, the fighters paused mid-blow. Freya's charisma was more powerful than any basilisk's stare. Rasaad stood statue-like, his fist raised over an unlucky soldier who had crossed his path. His other hand was gripping the man's collar. The monk shame-facedly came to his senses and put the man down. All around him, the others were backing off each other with guilty expressions. M'Khiin abandoned Baeloth with a disappointed huff, leaving Glint to tend to the drow's wounds. Even Edwin and Dynaheir slunk back to their respective parties, though each mage was glaring poison at the other.

The brawl was over, except for Viconia and Arowan who were scrapping around on the floor. Having each disarmed the other, the two women were fighting barehanded. They were covered in dirt and blood, either unaware or not caring that everybody else had stopped. Freya stomped over to the pair of them as the nervous fighters parted before her, tripping over each other in their haste to get out of the way. Freya seized each woman by the back of their collars and hauled them to their feet. There were deep angry scratch marks down Arowan's cheek and she sported a black eye, but Viconia had fared little better. Her nose would need healing and the ranger was still clutching a silvery fistful of the cleric's hair.

"Clean this mess up!" Freya bellowed, so assertively that the nearest soldiers took a step backward. "The next officer I see throwing a punch will be sent directly to Captain Corwin!"

Ironically, Captain Corwin had been unable to break up the brawl herself. Yet the _threat_ of her wrath spilling from the lips of the charismatic Hero proved far more effective than the Captain herself. Having ended the fight, Freya made to check that Skie was unhurt, but Bence beat her to it. The sight of the Corporal inspecting Skie's ankle for breaks with such gentle concern excited some interest from the watching soldiers. They whispered behind their hands and some even pointed. The werewolf scowled and turned away.

"Nice work Officer," said Corwin. Freya looked up at her in surprise, and could not help noticing that the Captain had a very attractive face on those rare occasions when she was not glaring at her. Freya saluted with a cautious smile. For a moment she could have sworn that Corwin turned a little pink, but only for a moment. The next second her customary frown was back and she added; "Better late than never anyway. Dismissed recruit."

As they tidied the camp and Imoen was dragged away in her chains, Viconia knelt down to help Glint fix up Baeloth's wounds. She shuffled sideways until she was close enough to talk to her fellow cleric without risking being overheard.

"We have gnomes in the Underdark as well you know," Viconia said conversationally.

"Svirfneblin? I wouldn't call them gnomes exactly. Not gnome-gnomes," said Glint pleasantly. "They're a dour lot aren't they? Dusty and grim."

"I haven't met many," replied Viconia, eyeing Glint. "Menzobarranzan marched on the svirfneblin city, Blingdenstone, once. But they escaped our wrath."

"Those were some very lucky gnomes!" replied Glint nervously.

"We drow make tenacious enemies, their luck may not last," said Viconia sharply. Glint swallowed. Viconia bent over to his level and pulled him by the beard so that they were nose to nose. "Freya does not need another cleric. _I_ am her cleric. Do we understand one another?"

"This is because I healed her after her fight with Teleria? Is that what this is about?" Glint asked, sweating slightly.

"Yes," hissed Viconia. "If your intent is to impress her and displace me from my role in the group, I strongly advise you to reconsider."

"So, what you are saying is that if Freya's cleric is absent for whatever reason, I should let her die?" probed Glint. "Because some people would definitely thank me for that! But I have a sneaking suspicion that you are not one of them."

"You had to heal her this time and I am… grateful," Viconia said between gritted teeth, "But I need the Hero's protection. If you attempt to replace me, I will have to take measures to stop you. Measures you won't like. You understand me?"

"Yes," agreed Glint brightly. "But if it makes you feel any more secure, the last thing in the world I want to do is support the Hero of Baldur's Gate."

A few feet away, Rasaad sat down heavily, his head in his hands, feeling utterly ashamed of himself. He could feel the eyes of Selune, which were permanently etched onto his chest, glaring up at him accusingly. His feelings for Arrow had made him dishonour himself by fighting his own allies. They were a curse, one that he wished he could rip from his chest and burn.

How he had envied his brother during their adolescence. Yes, he had been the stronger, the faster, the more disciplined. Yet Gamaz had never been burdened by this weakness. Gamaz had barely been afflicted by preoccupation with women, taking only the mildest interest. Years of training and meditation to suppress his sexuality had all but cured him of it, whereas Rasaad… he feared that no amount of willpower or dedication would ever free him from lust.

Arrow was dabbing resentfully at her torn cheek. This was war and healing potions were reserved for serious wounds. Mizhena had been knocked out in the fight, Glint had used up his spells on Baeloth and Arrow did not know about the goblin's healing powers. The Flaming Fist clerics had been busy with their own people and pointed her in the direction of Viconia. Arrow brushed her cheek again, where three deep slash marks traced down to her jaw. She would rather let it scar than accept any help from that rattlesnake.

Rasaad meandered across the camp. He looked dazed and troubled and when he sat down next to her she could not bring herself to send him away. It was the first time they had spoken since he found out about Coran and she was not sure what sort of reaction to expect. If he was angling for any sort of apology then he would be waiting for a long time.

"Pardon me, but may I have a word? I will be brief," Rasaad said. Arrow nodded curtly. "Our earlier interaction has been preying on my mind. I hope I did not truly upset you."

"This is all your fault," Arrow snapped, gesturing at the carnage around them. "Freya has the brains of a dead sea-sponge, I'd expect her to fall for Viconia's schemes! But what were _you_ thinking, letting Baeloth join you?"

"There was a vote, I was outvoted," Rasaad said simply. "I cannot pretend that I am comfortable travelling with such a morally ambiguous party. Yet I believe Corwin is aligned with the light and Freya, while she is not everything I might wish in a leader, probably falls short of evil."

"What a heroine! 'Probably falls short of evil.' I suppose you think the sun shines out of her tail end too?" huffed Arrow. Rasaad's expression darkened.

"I do not," he said. "I like her as a person but not at the head of an army. She is extremely dangerous in her own way."

"She's not that bad!" laughed Arrow. "Freya is super-obnoxious but I'd hardly describe her alignment as evil."

"I'd hardly describe it as good either. Neutral alignment is fine for many people, take Jaheira for instance, but it can be highly problematic in someone like Freya. She has enormous power but sees no value in self-restraint," insisted Rasaad. "That is a bad combination."

Arrow traced circles in the dust with her foot. Her boots had retained some of the ashes from when she and Viconia had wrestled over the campfire and they were mixing with the dirt to create a dark circle. She had a feeling that Rasaad had not really come over to talk about Freya, but he often skirted around whatever subject he really wanted to discuss and she was used to it. She traced little teardrop shapes around the circle she had drawn and gave it eyes and a mouth. With a jolt she realised that she was doodling Bhaal's symbol in the dirt, and scuffed it out hastily. She glanced anxiously at Rasaad, but the monk was still talking and had not noticed.

"Freya feels no responsibility to those who flock to her banner," he went on. "Our people worship her to the point of madness. They'd follow the… ah… 'Bitch of Baldur's Gate' into hell and back. The problem is she'd happily let them do it."

"Just like Caelar," mused Arrow.

"Exactly," said Rasaad. "Arrow there is something you need to know."

Arrow braced herself, but instead of talking about Coran, he told her about how Irenicus had come to him. How he had offered, more than once, to leave Arrow alone if Rasaad delivered Freya to him. She was stunned that he had kept this to himself for so long but the Selunite was not finished. He shared his suspicions that Safana had accepted the bargain and was planning to take her revenge by handing the werewolf over.

"You need to tell Freya this," said Arrow seriously.

"I fear how she will react if I do," admitted Rasaad. "Freya is petrified of Irenicus, and that fear may trump her friendships. She may interrogate Safana, perhaps even attack her. If I am wrong I would be doing an innocent woman considerable harm. Besides it would be admirable if Safana is willing to get over Freya having relations with Coran. I would not wish to drive a further wedge."

There was a long silence.

"You seemed upset. About Coran." Arrow said.

"I am." Rasaad admitted hoarsely.

"That isn't fair."

"I know."

Rasaad hung his head.

"Do you love him?" he asked.

"No," she said quietly. A muscle spasmed in his jaw.

"Then why did you do it?" he cried suddenly. Arrow gaped at him, appalled. For a moment she struggled to find her voice, and when her words finally came out they were shaking with suppressed rage.

"You were the one who chose to be a monk, not me!" she retorted. "What would you have me do? Pine for you forever like one of those limp romantics from Imoen's novels?"

Rasaad said nothing, he looked desperately conflicted. For months he had waivered back and forth over whether he should pursue a relationship with Arrow. He was aware that he had hurt her in the process. Yet never once had he seriously considered making love to someone else. His mind kept conjuring painful images of her in Coran's arms. He could not believe that she had really done this. Then again, she'd hidden Gamaz's numbing potions from him and he never saw that coming either. Arrow had a knack for unpleasantly surprising him.

"Hey Rasaad, could I have a word- oh! Sorry!" mumbled Freya. She had bounded over with her usual Labrador-like cheer but then saw they were having a moment and backed off. Arrow motioned her to stay and signalled that she was leaving.

"I don't understand you," Arrow sighed to Rasaad, with a sad half-smile. Freya guessed the subject of their conversation and winced, having been the one whose indiscretion had told Rasaad about Arrow and Coran's fling. The ranger simply shrugged at her and walked away, shaking her head.

"What would you have of me?" Rasaad asked Freya, looking thoroughly miserable. The werewolf watched her sister walking away with an unreadable expression. Her golden hair caught the wind and fanned out about her like the rays of the sun. She opened her mouth as if to say something about Arrow, but seemed to think the better of it, and returned to her original reason for coming over.

"I thought we could meditate together, what with you being a fellow Selunite," she suggested jovially.

"Selune is certainly the patron deity of non-evil lycanthropes," Rasaad conceded warily, "But I cannot picture you seeking inner calm. You are making fun of me."

"Of course I'm not!" she said, looking genuinely surprised. She shrugged off her scarlet Fist waistcoat and unbuttoned her shirt. Rasaad blushed and looked away. "Oh for the love of.. all I want to show you is my back!" Freya sighed impatiently.

Reluctantly he looked at her back. Freya battled her golden hair out of the way. To his surprise there were the seven stars and two gleaming eyes of Selune staring back at him. They were inked around the bumps of Freya's spine in a very permanent way. If this was a deception it was an elaborate one.

"They're not as good as yours," she conceded, "But I could never tattoo my face. The Moonmaiden has shown me a great deal of patience, but I doubt even she could forgive me for tarnishing her most perfect creation to date!"

Rasaad laughed despite himself.

"So you really do meditate?"

"Twice daily at least. You seem surprised?" she grinned.

"Forgive the observation but your general demeanour would suggest that... ah... self-control is not high on your list of priorities." Rasaad said delicately.

Freya nodded with a smile. It was a reasonable observation. She sat down beside the monk in the spot Arrow had just been occupying, rebuttoning her shirt. Across the campfire, the quartermaster's mate tripped over. He had been too busy looking at Freya's shirtless front to watch where he was going and stumbled over a tent rope. It ripped a hole in the tent. Only a small one but Corporal Bence, who had already lost one tent and many of his possessions in the brawl, came storming out to remonstrate with him. The werewolf snorted. Then she looked at Rasaad and her tone grew more serious.

"Controlling the change, the bloodlust, is a huge challenge for any lycanthrope," she said. "Doubly so for a child of Bhaal. My other father had to part with most of his savings to hire two Selunite Priestesses to sit with me day and night as a cub. They taught me to redirect my more violent impulses. Gorion was a good man. Had I been raised by anyone else..." she broke off shuddering.

"For what little it is worth I have met many werewolves during my service to the Calimport monastery and none of them control it as well as you seem to," Rasaad observed respectfully.

"You think I have no self-restraint monk, but the truth is I simply have more to restrain. Self-control is like a dam in your soul, holding back the angry waters. Your dam keeps in everything while mine leaks constantly. From the outside that makes yours seem stronger. Yet your dam only blocks a stream of darkness. Mine has to hold back an ocean."

"Not a stream," sighed Rasaad. "A large river at least. You... you surprise me Freya. Very well. Let us meditate together."

They did not have time to meditate for long. Following the brawl, Corwin and Bence decided that it would be best to pack up the camp and proceed toward the bridge. There would be much less chance of a repeat performance if the marchers were given something to do. This turned out to be a fortunate decision. The bustle and mess created by dismantling the camp hid much of the damage when Duke Silvershield (riding his speed-potion doped stallion) galloped back to camp to check on Skie.

The young noblewoman noted his approach and slipped away from camp, running to catch up with the adventurers. They had been tasked with guarding the bridge while the main army crossed. She found the two Bhaalspawn discussing Imoen who had been left in camp. They had removed the chains for now. The pink-haired girl's headache had returned with a vengeance and she was too incapacitated to be a danger to anybody. Glint gave her another patch, she was no wearing one across her forehead, and another at the base of her skull, but nothing seemed to help.

"Skie get back to camp, this could be dangerous!" cried Freya. Skie responded by smacking her on the nose. The werewolf let out an involuntary whining noise and backed down, prompting Corwin to scoff with disgust.

"Go ahead, send me back!" Skie shouted ahead to the Captain. "Daddy is in the camp, I can tell him all about the fight that broke out under your and Bence's noses!"

Corwin's lip curled and her hand tightened around the hilt of her Fist-issue sword. She turned with a flick of her cropped dark hair and quickened her walking pace. Clearly she hoped to put as much distance as possible between herself and the annoying aristocrat.

" _So?_ " Skie asked eagerly, taking Arrow's hand. "What was that all about between you and Rasaad? It put him in a mood whatever it was. Those officers he was fighting all needed to visit the healers!"

"He found out about Coran," muttered Arrow.

"Sorry," Freya apologized again.

"Don't be. It doesn't matter," the ranger replied shaking her head. Her brown eyes met Skie's curious, pretty gaze. Suddenly Arrow burst out in frustration, "I don't understand what his problem is! Why should he care what I did with Coran? He ditched me, not the other way around. More than once! Then he didn't speak to me for months, told me to go to Dragonspear without him like he doesn't care whether I live or die but then shows up anyway. The next thing I know he's crying over my frozen body. What is wrong with him? Or is it me?"

'It isn't you." Freya stated decisively.

"Pardon?" Arrow said. The cast-iron certainty in the Hero's tone snapped her out of her thoughts.

"Rasaad. The way he is," Freya went on heavily. "It isn't his fault exactly. But it's not you either. You see?"

"No, I don't," replied Arrow, nonplussed. "You're not making any sense. I have literally no idea what you're talking about."

She watched the Hero with a quizzical expression. Freya was talking in a constricted, oddly stilted way. It was weird and very unlike her. Normally the wolf seemed to have no filter whatsoever between her mouth and the walnut that passed for her brain. Even the way she was walking seemed to have changed. Instead of her usual overconfident stride, Freya was scuffing her shoes along the road, kicking up little clouds of dust.

"Is this a Selunite thing?" Skie asked. Freya opened her mouth and closed it again. The noblewoman waited patiently. Freya had been raised by monks from the same order as Rasaad. The werewolf looked up the path at the rest of their parties who by now were some way ahead. She called out to them that she'd catch them up.

"Er... ok. Sit down with me a minute," sighed Freya reluctantly. She plonked herself by the roadside, and Arrow and Skie crouched either side of her. "Way back when I was a kid, when I was first bitten, I had real trouble controlling my transformations. Gorion brought in these Selunite monks from the monastery in Athkatla. They lived with us for over a decade. Taught me how to get a grip on the wolf. Practically raised me along with Dad."

"I know all this," said Arrow, who did not really want a heart to heart with her heroic half-sister. "So what?"

"Rasaad was raised by Selunite monks too." Freya said. She finished there, as though the statement was self-explanatory. The silence was filled only by the rustle of leaves in the grass and the mournful croaking of a distant frog.

"I don't really want to talk about this with you, Freya," snapped Arrow, who didn't much like the werewolf. "So if you have a point, spit it out."

Skie smacked the ranger's thigh repressively. Despite numerous attempts, she had never succeeded in drawing the Hero into detail on this subject. Even when blind-drunk she always seemed to find a way to change the topic. Freya caught Skie's eye and flinched. When she continued, it was as though she was dredging up memories that were causing her pain. Her grey eyes were fixed on her hands and when she spoke it was in a deadened, haunted voice.

"Selunite monks have issues with sex," Freya told Arrow stiffly. "It's partly doctrinal and partly because of the type of person who voluntarily takes celibacy vows. Rasaad will have been brainwashed to hate himself since his first teenage boner. He can't even look at you without thinking he's done you a dishonour."

"That's ridiculous," said Arrow flatly.

"When you're young and impressionable and they drill it in every day for years, some of it is going to sink in," Freya shrugged. "It isn't something you can just switch off."

She picked up a stone, hefted it a couple of times and tossed it into the long grass. A handful of crickets leapt up in alarm. Thoughtlessly, the werewolf reached for another, but Arrow lifted it from her fingers and sent it skittering back down the road. From somewhere over the bridge came a rumble of far-off thunder.

"Rasaad once told me that some men at the monastery paired off with each other, and they all turned a blind eye to it," retorted Arrow. "Clearly they're not _all_ that repressed!"

"That's different. Most of the monks joined as adults of their own free will," said Freya. "There's a world of difference between that and being battered over the head on a daily basis from your very first crush. Rasaad joined the monks as a child."

"Why would they give you two such a hard time if they're not doing any better themselves?" frowned Skie.

"Hypocrisy?" Freya suggested with a hollow bark of laughter. "They know that they fall short of their own ideals, but they think that if they start indoctrinating other people young enough, they'll raise kids who are better than they were. They were trying to help us, in their own messed up way. It's..." The werewolf paused and shook her head as if trying to dislodge something unpleasant. "You can't really understand unless you were raised like that yourself. It alters you."

"Doesn't seem to have had any lasting impact on you," replied Arrow dryly. "You jump into bed with anything in a skirt."

"You would be surprised," replied Freya with a sad shrug. "Maybe it hasn't affected me as obviously as it has Rasaad. But I had Dad to kick the monks out of our home and tell me they were talking bollocks. Rasaad didn't. He has never known any different."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Arrow.

"Because he'll never tell you himself," Freya answered bleakly. "And you were talking like you were starting to think it was something wrong with you. If I let you walk away thinking that, then their poison will have spread to one more person. Self-loathing is contagious."

On that dismal note, the werewolf leaned forward and transformed. By the time her hands brushed the dusty road they were great padded paws. She gestured with her broad, golden muzzle for the others to ride her back as Rasaad had done. Notionally her transformation was to carry them quickly to catch up with the others, though Skie suspected that it was also an excuse to stop talking. Nevertheless, she climbed onto the werewolf's back and reached down a hand to pull Arrow up.

The ranger remained seated on the ground, shaking her head. Skie wrapped her slender arms around Freya's golden furry neck and the werewolf bounded away, leaving Arrow to trudge slowly behind wondering what to do. She had promised herself that it was over. She was convinced that if she gave Rasaad another chance he would only wind up hurting her again. Frankly what she had just heard did not make her think this any less likely. Freya painted a picture of a deeply damaged man.

" _But I love him,"_ she thought unhappily.

After she had been walking for a time there was a clatter of hooves on the road behind her and she jumped. Her first fear was Irenicus, but with a sigh of relief she saw that it was only Duke Silvershield on his horse. No doubt he was looking for Skie, but on finding the Bhaalspawn unattended he pulled her up behind him. This time, Arrow did not feel in a position to refuse.

Skie and Freya had long since caught up with the others, but the thief was not done with her questions.

"What exactly did the monks do?" asked Skie curiously. "I heard in Athkatla they give you drugs to make you vomit and then show you pictures of attractive people of the same sex. Like, eventually every time you saw a pretty woman you'd feel sick."

"I've heard of that," admitted Freya. "Sounds like a bad idea, even by their own logic. I mean who's to say it wouldn't work the other way around? What if instead of associating women with vomiting, I started associating vomiting with beautiful women? Bang! Next thing you know you're stuck with a vomit-fetish!"

Skie giggled, but then pressed for more details. Freya could tell that the young aristocrat was not going to let this drop.

"It's different for each individual," said Freya. "They play on your weaknesses."

"I didn't think you had any weaknesses," teased Skie, but Freya looked away. She was not in the mood to be teased. Not about this.

"Everybody does," she mumbled.

"Tell me," Skie insisted.

"They knew I…" Freya began uncomfortably. "Ok, don't laugh. I know it's ridiculous, but I want a pack one day. A mate. Puppies. Obviously it isn't going to happen, how could it? But then they take stuff like that and use it to start chipping away at you. 'No woman would want to marry you.' 'What makes you think you're fit to be anyone's parent?' 'You think she's pretty? And what would _she_ think if she knew you were looking at her like that? She'd be disgusted. She'd feel dirty. How can you even look at yourself in the mirror?' On and on, like that."

"They'd say stuff like that to Rasaad too?" Skie baulked.

"Probably something very similar," shrugged Freya. "Hand-tailored for each individual. He obviously just wants the same thing most healthy young men want, but he reckons that makes him some sort of vile pervert."

" _You_ don't actually believe all that, though do you?" Skie probed, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. "About nobody wanting you and straight women thinking you're disgusting? I don't think that."

Freya said nothing. Then she cracked a smile.

"One of the monks had this theory," she grinned, "That gay people seek in their partners something that they're lacking in themselves. For example, if you like feminine women that's because you secretly don't feel feminine enough yourself. The cure would be to braid flowers into your hair and take up ballet, I guess. Er… no offence."

Skie had once been a keen ballerina. Her instructors called her talent exceptional and she had been encouraged in it by her proud father, right up to the point where she wanted to turn professional. That was not allowed. Respectable noblewomen did not perform on stage for the common rabble. So she'd given up on dance and turned her talents to thieving instead. Mostly to spite him.

"Anyway," Freya went on, slightly abashed but still grinning. "This monk wants to know what I like in women so she can test her theory out. So I says to her; 'tits and a fat arse.' Just to piss her off. She's gaping at me all outraged. So then I says; 'So are you saying that if I go get a breast enhancement and eat a whole lot of pastries I'll turn into a heterosexual?'"

Freya let out a bark of laughter at the memory of the monk's horrified face. Hers was a great booming laugh that made the others look over at her curiously. She smiled broadly at Skie, eyes twinkling.

"And that was when the monks gave up on me and told Dad I was gay," she winked.

"How can you laugh about it the way you do?" cried Skie, horrified. "This isn't funny, it's horrendous!"

"If I couldn't see the humour in it, I'd probably hang myself," said Freya flatly. Skie's lip started wobbling at this. The werewolf sighed and wrapped her arms around her comfortingly. "Oh no. C'mon. I didn't mean that literally."

"What do you think Arrow should do about Rasaad?" Skie sniffled into her armpit.

"I think she's good for him," said Freya slowly. She did not, if she was being completely truthful, think that _he_ was good for _her._ Yet she badly wanted to be proven wrong. Rasaad was damaged goods, just like she was. If he could not pull himself together, what did that say about her own chances?

There was a thud of hooves and their hair was ruffled by a stallion's warm breath. Both women froze and looked up slowly. There on his horse, with Arrow clinging on behind him, was Duke Silvershield. He was glaring thunderously at his daughter in the arms of the Bitch of Baldur's Gate. Freya dropped Skie guiltily, but with a defiant scowl at her father, the thief spun her around and kissed the edge of her mouth.

"Skie. A word," the Duke demanded stiffly. Arrow scrambled down from the horse and made herself scarce. Freya, with an annoyingly happy expression, gave the Duke an ironic bow and trotted up the path to find Safana. She had been meaning to have a word with her other thief, but the opportunity had not arisen until now.

"Hey! Saffy!" she called, leaving Skie's incensed father tugging at his pointed beard. She fumbled in her pack for something shiny, then clasped her hands behind her back, clutching the cool, hard object.

The thief looked up and smiled seductively, sashaying to Freya and running her finger up the werewolf's prominent chest. Corwin spotted them and looked livid. Safana's eyes moved straight to Freya's hands which were concealed firmly behind her.

"You're talking to me," Safana smiled gleefully, "Which can only mean one thing. You've got my present!"

Freya raised an eyebrow with a cocky smile of her own. Then she presented her closed fist. Safana's mouth formed a wide 'O' and her eyes lit up. The Bitch of Baldur's Gate had exceeded even her rapacious expectations. Even Freya's large hand was not broad enough to fully conceal the glittering red object in her grasp. She opened her fingers to reveal the largest ruby Safana had ever set eyes on. It was perfect and light twinkled from every cut surface as the thief seized it and held it to the sun. The glow reflected from her greedy eyes, making them sparkle red, just like Viconia's.

"The heart of the basilisk," Freya said with a low bow. "Yours, my avaricious lady."

"You have outdone yourself!" Safana cried, ecstatic. She placed her gleaming ruby to her throat like a pendant and twirled around. "You may have slept with my boyfriend, but I must confess this new one you've brought me is _much_ more attractive."

"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" grinned Freya.

"You're getting there," Safana smiled, fingering her prize affectionately. "This little darling is worth about twenty Corans. But there _is_ still the insult factor."

"I will endeavour to redeem myself," replied Freya with a fond smile. Safana was grasping, mercenary… an utter bloodsucker. And the werewolf adored her for it, just as she loved Coran for being a lecherous cad. They were a pack, and the three of them belonged together. "Tell me what it will take, and it's yours."

"I know!" purred Safana. She kissed the ruby and stowed it into a hidden pocket in her tunic. Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "I want a poem."

"A poem?" Freya looked dumbstruck.

"Yes!" beamed Safana, warming to the notion. "A love poem. All about _me._ "

As the wide stone bridge spanning the winding water finally loomed into view, Freya nibbled her lip. Gems, riches, magical items were all easily attainable for the Hero, who was so rich that the loss was scarce worthy of note. That ruby, magnificent though it was, paled into insignificance compared to what bailing out Coran and funding those sodding refugees was costing her. So Safana had cruelly set her a challenge that would involve using her intellect. She sighed and shook her head. Was there any quality in a woman lovelier than deviousness?

Corwin would certainly disagree. The moment their conversation ended she rounded on the thief and started shaming her for sponging off of Freya.

"There's a name for women who use their sexuality for profit," she hissed in Safana's ear.

"I can't help it. A fool's treasure never rests," replied Safana cynically. "It moves around from purse to purse until finally it finds its way into a wiser woman's fingers. Only then can it relax."

Safana pulled out the ruby and tossed it high into the air, admiring the way it shone in the sunlight. As it fell, she extended her hand and caught it deftly. Ignoring Corwin's disapproving frown, she stretched out luxuriantly, shamelessly admiring her new bauble.

"That said…" the thief mused, letting the light catch the gem from different angles, "For a fool, Freya makes some surprisingly good investments."

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Corwin.

"Bought and paid for loyalty is loyalty nonetheless," smiled Safana significantly. "And Freya's decision to purchase mine is not so foolish as you might suppose."

Her fingers snapped around the ruby like a trap.


	18. Caelar Argent

"It's a trap! Take Skie and ride back!" bellowed Freya, but it was too late. The small timber blockade around the bridge had been magically concealed and the adventurers did not detect it in time.

The crusader guards were scarcely less alarmed to see the officers. Two were in their bedrolls and leapt up with weapons ready but no time to don armour. Another stared at them in disbelief as he finished taking a piss.

"Freya is here, she's here!" cried their captain. "The elites have failed, they failed! Everyone back across the bridge, go. Go!"

The guards, a motley collection of humans, elves and hobgoblins, sprinted toward the bridge, leaving everything but their weapons behind them. One of the unarmoured sleepers was felled by an arrow from Corwin and the other by the combined curses of Edwin and Baeloth. Two more were killed by their own panicking allies.

"The elites failed?" screamed an aging wizard on the other side of the bridge. "Oh, gods!"

"Wait, what are you- ? No! Don't!" screamed the crusader captain desperately, but to no avail. Flames and bangs engulfed the bridge and an explosion shook the ground. The crusader pair who stood closest to the blast were fried instantly. Everyone else felt the heat hit them like a tidal wave.

"Eyes shut everyone!" Freya commanded. Even the surviving crusaders obeyed, and not a moment too soon as clouds of dust and grit enveloped them all. Their ears were ringing from the force of the blast.

The Duke's long-suffering horse whinnied in fear and bucked. Silvershield was thrown forward and tumbled onto the ground. He staggered up bruised and winded, but fortunate not to have broken his neck. Skie, who had been hauled up beside him for a telling-off, managed to cling on. The animal reared, turned and galloped back in the direction of camp in a clattering of anxious hooves.

Deafened and blinded, it took several minutes of settling debris before either side could do more than hack and cough at each other. At last they started to risk tentatively opening their stinging eyes. The far side of the bridge was obscured by a thick grey smog of rock-dust but it was clear that the crusaders had blown up the bridge.

"I always enjoyed fireworks," remarked Safana glibly, but Freya's canine ears were ringing too loudly to hear her.

"The crossing is down, gods damn it!" Corwin bellowed furiously.

"This is our chance to prove ourselves to Caelar!" cried a surviving guard. "She wants the Hero of Baldur's Gate. Cut off their retreat quickly!"

A shimmering magical barrier sprung up behind them, but as the crusader's eyes adjusted to the stinging debris, it soon became apparent that they had made a tactical mistake. Both Bhaalspawn, their parties, the Duke, Safana, M'Khiin and Glint were all trapped in there with them. The crusaders were hopelessly outnumbered and outmatched.

Freya grinned, drew both swords and charged them.

"Wait!" cried Arrow, "Give them a chance to surrender!"

"Nah," replied Freya, parrying a large hobgoblin's mace, side-stepping him with ease and slicing his tendon. Her opponent let out a yell and dropped to one knee, unable to rise again. Minsc drew his broadsword eagerly as the spell casters started chanting. The battle would have been short and bloody, were they not distracted by a commotion from across the bridge.

"Curse you Jayvis!" thundered a voice from over the rubble. "Do you know what your cowardice has cost us this day?"

Freya held up her hand for quiet as there was an angry scrambling. Someone was clambering up the mound of rocks and shattered mortar. At the top, wreathed in settling smoke, emerged the head and shoulders of a beautiful but furious silken-haired priest. Black pupiless eyes glittered down at them through the miasma from under a sweep of long blonde locks.

"And what can I do for you ma'am?" Freya asked appreciatively.

Then the comely cleric hauled himself up the rest of the way and Freya found herself sadly disappointed by everything from the neck downwards. He surveyed them imperiously, stretching out a hand at Freya as if he wanted to pluck her away with him.

"Never mind, scratch that offer. I thought you were a bird," Freya called up to him. "Can't be arsed talking to you unless you brought beer. Fight's back on people!"

She swung her two swords in a crossing motion and severed the hobgoblin's head. They were about to resume the battle in earnest when a second voice called out from across the bridge; "Hephernaan. What happened here?"

Slowly Freya lowered her weapons and looked up. It was a woman's voice, powerful and commanding. A voice with charisma to rival even her own. There was only one candidate in the crusade to possess a voice like that. Caelar herself.

"The Bhaalspawn arrived my lady," Hephernaan explained in an oily, irksome voice. "Unbound and unescorted by your elites. This man panicked. He destroyed the bridge before our prey could cross."

"Forgive me lady! Please!" begged Jayvis.

"There is nothing to forgive, the fault is mine," Caelar's voice carried across the bridge. "I should have warned you of this possibility. It is time this child of Bhaal and I had words. Crusaders stand down!"

The crusaders lowered their weapons. Judging by Freya's face, Arrow surmised that the Hero intended to take this opportunity to slaughter the pack of them, but Duke Silvershield intervened.

"Who are you?" he shouted into the mist.

"I am Caelar Argent! I would speak with the Bhaalspawn. Now!"

There was a clattering of armour as Caelar climbed the mound of rubble on the other side of the bridge. Freya watched with an indifferent expression. The Duke began hastily arranging his own clothes which had gotten rather messed up when he was thrown from his horse. Corwin hurried to her commander at once and hastily used her own cloak to wipe the mud from his pointed face.

"You missed a spot," remarked Safana acidly, gesturing at the Duke's boots and miming licking. Corwin shot her a sour look, then turned her attention to Freya.

"This may be our only opportunity to communicate directly with Caelar," Corwin spoke urgently. "We have to take it."

"We've an opportunity to end this by putting an arrow between her eyes," Freya stated the obvious with a meaningful look at Arrow and Corwin.

"I'll not dishonour my fellows by assassinating an enemy who has called for parlay!" Corwin declared self-righteously. Rasaad nodded but the rest of Freya's group looked revolted. Neither she, Edwin nor the drow had much time or patience for the notion of 'honour.'

"Are you kidding? What's dishonourable about assassinating her? _She_ tried to assassinate _me_!" objected Freya forcefully.

"My only complaint about that is that she failed! Anyway she'll be protected against any attack, arcane or otherwise," remarked Corwin. "Diplomacy may prevail. Or at least unsettle her."

"The Flaming Fist frump fathoms the facts," agreed Baeloth. "That falsely fluorescent female fairly radiates from the defensive spells enfolding her. I can see the glow from here."

"She's never been willing to speak with anyone representing the council before," mused Duke Silvershield. "If she'll talk to you… well I doubt she's here to surrender but Captain Corwin is right. We should hear what she has to say."

Freya pulled a disgusted face but sheathed her swords behind her back. She stomped to the crumbling edge of the blasted bridge leaving large footprints in the soot. Her eyes, like everyone else's, were bloodshot from the filthy air left in the wake of the explosion. It made her look more like a mad wolf than ever.

"I'm here!" Freya called back over the rubble. "And their lordships won't let me end you so you may as well come out!"

And come out she did. As the Shining Lady ascended the remains of the bridge, the watching adventurers drew a collective gasp. She cut an imposing figure; tall, broad and striking. There could be no question that her heritage was divine. Her eyes glowed down from her elevated position with the radiant blue of the aasimar. Freya realised that her mouth was hanging open as she looked at the majestic woman. She shut it hastily but not before Caelar noticed with a lofty little smile. Her chestnut hair whipped about her face as she looked down on the delegation.

"You! I assume you are the one they refer to as the Bitch of Baldur's Gate?" she hollered, pointing at Freya.

"Think you can scrape your jaw off the ground long enough to answer her?" sneered Safana under her breath.

The werewolf suddenly felt powerfully aware that she was coated in dust from the explosion. Instinctively she shook herself like a dog, sending it flying in a great grey spray into Corwin and the Duke's faces. When she was done, she was as golden and magnificent as ever, albeit slightly smudged. Caelar watched her, singularly unimpressed.

"Pardon milord, but I think I'm going to have to defect," breathed Freya. Duke Silvershield cuffed the werewolf sharply around the ear and Corwin shoved her in the small of the back so that she stumbled forward. The Captain, in her irritation, knocked her slightly father than she intended forcing Freya to scramble back from the edge of the bridge. It was undignified, but she had more than enough charisma to recover. She reached for her hip flask, raised it in a mocking toast to the Shining Lady and took a long swig. It was intentionally disrespectful. It said; 'I don't even need to face you sober.'

"So, the Bitch of Baldur's Gate comes for my head," said Caelar coolly. "Shall we speak and see what comes of it?"

"I wouldn't presume to ask for your head, we've only just met," Freya called back, finding her voice. "But I'll happily give you my head ma'am, just say the word."

Safana and Viconia's lips twitched and some of Caelar's own crusaders snorted with laughter, but the Shining Lady did not seem to get it.

Freya meanwhile was in love. Or at least in Coran's definition of 'love' which was raw, unspoilt lust-at-first-sight. The crusade's leader was staring down at her with cold, superior contempt. The werewolf could see now why so many had flocked to her banner. She certainly would have done, had circumstances been different.

"It may seem that we stand on opposite sides but it is not so," said Caelar, oblivious to the fact that her canine nemesis was close to literally drooling. "Our goals are closer than you know."

"Oh I really, really doubt that," Freya called back longingly across the bridge. "But I live in hope!"

There was another round of snickering, louder this time. They were, Arrow realised, fighting a battle by proxy. Testing out their charisma like a pair of lions roaring at each other. Caelar was playing the righteous paladin. Freya the dashing rogue. They were both highly appealing to the troops in their own different ways, but in Arrow's opinion they were both full of crap.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Caelar. She turned to Hephernaan. "What is she talking about?"

Hephernaan smiled silkily and whispered in Caelar's ear. The dignified aasimar kept her glowing eyes locked on Freya as he spoke. As she listened, the Shining Lady tensed and her jaw stiffened. There was a clamour of approaching feet. Both armies; Crusaders and Flaming Fist, had heard the explosion and were assembling at their leader's backs. They could not reach each other across the Winding Water, though firing spells and missiles across the bridge was a definite option.

"What say you we avoid all this bloodshed and finish each other one on one?" Freya hollered across the bridge. The Flaming Fist gave a small cheer. Even some of the crusaders looked hopeful.

"You dare challenge me to single combat?" thundered Caelar.

Freya blinked. Her adversary was awe-inspiring and truly a consummate stateswoman. Yet, like Sarevok, she lacked the advantages the werewolf had in combat. Gorion had stolen for her every strength, dexterity and charisma enhancing tome that the vaults of Candlekeep library had to offer. Caelar was capable of putting up a decent fight against her, certainly. Yet despite the Shining Lady's confidence, in one on one combat with Freya her defeat was a foregone conclusion.

"Combat?! Well… that's not exactly what I meant by 'finish each other' and it wouldn't be my first choice either. But hey, I guess I'm game if you are!" Freya yelled. She drew her right-hand bastard sword and twirled it threateningly.

Her own soldiers laughed out loud, many of them adding equally crude comments of their own. Even a few of the crusaders indulged in a quiet giggle until a look from their captains silenced them. The Shining Lady wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Amazing," whispered Glint. "Half of the Flaming Fist want to swim across the river and fall at Caelar's feet. But half of the crusaders want to drop their banners and defect to Freya. It's like charisma wars out there."

"You are truly everything your reputation had led me to expect," declared Caelar scathingly. "Perhaps if I might end this farce and parlay with your saner sibling?"

"You want to talk to _Arrow?_ " Freya howled, unable to believe her ears.

" _I_ will speak for Baldur's Gate!" Duke Silvershield volunteered.

"You are of no significance!" spat Hephernaan, dismissively. "And clearly there is not a word of sense to be gleaned from the Bitch of Baldur's Gate. It is Arowan or no-one!"

Arrow, who had been lurking toward the back of the party, shook her head desperately. She had spoken before crowds twice in her life and both times it had been a disaster. The Duke beckoned impatiently but her feet refused to move and the colour drained from her face. She looked in panic at the Flaming Fist soldiers who were watching her expectantly. Finally it fell to Minsc to physically shove Arrow out into the open.

"What do you want with me?" the ranger quavered, sounding a lot braver than she felt.

"You are an Ilmatari, are you not?" Caelar demanded.

"Um… yes?" replied Arrow, who could not imagine why her personal faith would be of interest to the crusade.

"In our lifetimes two Dragonspear wars have ravaged this land," said Caelar. "Fiends set out from the castle bringing ruin to the lands and dragging thousands of innocent souls into the inferno before being beaten back for a time. Those who follow me lost wives and husbands, parents, children, friends… But what is lost can be restored. I will bring those tortured souls back to Toril."

"Do you really believe such a thing is possible?" asked Arrow.

"I do. And even if I fail it is still necessary," replied Caelar. "To not attempt it would be a greater crime. As you ought to appreciate, _Ilmatari._ "

The ranger considered this, if only to distract herself from the eyes of so many people baring down on her. Her distress was clear to Rasaad, and not for the first time his instinct was to go to her, but he was not sure whether they were on friendly enough terms for that. Arrow waivered. If the souls of the Dragonspear dead could be saved then no price in mortal deaths was too high. A life cut short was but a few lost years. Hell was eternity. Yet if Caelar were to storm the Nine Hells and fail, far more souls would join the damned in their eternal torment.

"Countless lives were lost as the demons erupted from Dragonspear, a tide of hate and sulphur ravaging the land," Caelar petitioned them. "None could escape, there was nowhere to run. Every soul caught in a fiend's grip at the moment of their death. But it does not end there. They are taken to the Nine Hells. Their blood boils, their skin blisters and bursts. Devil's claws rend their soul tearing it to shreds but they cannot die! I hear them Arrow. I hear the screams of the unjustly damned. And I will not turn a deaf ear."

"You hear them?" Arrow gasped. She frowned, troubled. "If what you say is truly possible… Why me? What can I do?"

"Speak to the council. Tell the Dukes to send their armies home!" entreated Caelar, her blue eyes flashing.

This met with a derisive ripple of laughter from everyone from the Baldur's Gate camp, including Arrow herself. The ranger was a nobody, a borderline-prisoner under the Hero's protection. Few cared for her opinions and that select group certainly did not include the Grand Dukes.

"I fear you have been misinformed," replied Arrow, mystified. "My words hold no sway whatsoever with the leaders of Baldur's Gate."

"She's right, they don't," chipped in Duke Silvershield.

"There need not be a war between us," Caelar insisted. "Divine blood, but a few drops, is required to open the gate to Avernus. Come with us Arrow. Let us borrow you for a few days and we can free the tortured souls. The rest of you may return to your families."

"Reopen the gates to hell?" cried Duke Silvershield. "On _purpose?_ What madness is this? My family have fought in both Dragonspear wars. The demons were beyond count. The only thing limiting the size of that horde was the narrowness of the portal itself! Send an army, however vast, directly into their domain and there will be a thousand fiends to every man. This is lunacy!"

There was more scrabbling and Jayvis scrambled to the top of the mound. Elderly mages whose magics had artificially extended their lives long past the point where they ought to have died, sported certain tell-tale signs. Jayvis had a haggard, twitchy look about him and darting, deranged eyes. Caelar made to shush him, but the crusader mage was determined to say his piece.

"I was there!" Jayvis declared, "When your ancestor marched his army into the second Dragonspear war. His 'wife' Maire was safely tucked away in Baldur's Gate. Mine was dragged into the Nine Hells, and while she is still there, I refuse to die! The Grand Dukes know nothing of what we suffered!"

Arrow opened her mouth to say something consoling but was shoved roughly aside by Silvershield. His teeth were gritted, and his dark doe-like eyes were burning dangerously. In every other aspect of his pointed, bearded appearance he was a clone of her husband, but his eyes were Maire's. They had seen him angry before. In fact in Freya's presence he was perpetually irritated, but this was different.

"What do you mean _'wife'_?" he demanded.

"Jayvis step back!" ordered Caelar impatiently. "This is beside the point-"

"He made this gesture," Duke Silvershield flexed his fingers to sign quotation marks, "When he called Maire my great-grandfather's wife. Which implies you think she was not really his wife."

"What Jayvis thinks about a long-dead bard is irrelevant!" barked Caelar.

But of course, it was not irrelevant to the Duke. With the long-standing unrest in Baldur's Gate coming to a head, Silvershield's grasp on power was tenuous. To question Maire Silvershield's status as the legitimate Grand-Duchess was to doubt the right to rule of all her descendants. Especially him. This was an inflammatory thing to say at the best of times, and had fuelled much of the diplomatic unease between Baldur's Gate and Amn. But when the people of Baldur's Gate were one excuse away from overthrowing their leaders, Jayvis's words were nothing short of treason.

"This negotiation is over!" bellowed Silvershield, turning red in the face. He turned back to the Flaming Fist army assembled behind them and announced; "A thousand gold coins to the officer who brings me that man's head!"

"Consider my offer Bhaalspawn!" Caelar called to Arrow as she turned to leave.

"I'll go with you!" volunteered Freya cheerfully. The Shining Lady turned back contemptuously.

"Not _that_ Bhaalspawn," said Caelar firmly.

"But my lady! I stand ready to defect!" the werewolf declared dropping to one knee. "I will gladly follow you into hell if you like. All I ask is that you give me a chance to show you heaven first."

Caelar rolled her eyes. Since the eyes of her kind were a divine, glowing blue this created the rather disconcerting effect of eclipsing them from the bottom. Then she turned and strode away, berating Jayvis as they went.

"Mi'lord, perhaps a marriage alliance would solve all our problems?" suggested Freya dreamily.

"For the sake of everyone's sanity will somebody, please, cut her tongue out!" snarled Duke Silvershield quietly.

"Half the noblewomen in Baldur's Gate will take up arms against you if you do," grinned Freya, waggling her tongue at him suggestively. The Duke turned purple with rage. "They like my tongue where it is. Especially some of the recent recruits to the Flaming Fi-"

"One more sexual reference to my daughter," hissed the Duke, seizing Freya by the collar and pulling her nose to nose with him, "And the crusade will be the least of your worries, do you understand me?"

The werewolf swallowed and nodded. Though the Duke could not possibly harm her directly, she did need the Flaming Fist to keep her out of the hands of Irenicus. It would not do to antagonise the man too far.

"Corwin!"

"Sir!"

"Remove this drooling pervert to somewhere else. Anywhere else."

"Sir!" replied Corwin, grasping Freya by the collar and yanking hard.

"Duke Silvershield?" asked Arrow nervously. She refused to refer to him as 'milord.' All men were equal in the sight of Ilmater. "Perhaps we should consider what she is saying. If Caelar really could rescue those trapped souls _and_ it would avoid a war…"

"Have you ever come across the term 'martyr complex?'" Freya cut her off casually. Captain Corwin jerked her collar again and she choked.

"Shut up," replied Arrow. She glanced back at the spot where Caelar had stood, wondering if they were doing the right thing.

Hephernaan still lurked at the top of the pile, his black eyes lingering hungrily on Arrow. There was something she could not place, something almost reptilian about Hephernaan. Any moment she expected a forked tongue to come flickering out from between his thin lips. The ranger was no academic, but she had better instincts than her sister and in that moment she decided that no matter what Caelar's intentions, she would not voluntarily hand herself to this man.

"Thou hast not considered that Caelar too possesses divine blood," Dynaheir spoke in her ear. She too was watching Hephernaan watching them. "If t'were only a few drops they were seeking to open the portal, why go to such lengths to obtain thine? Why not use her own blood?"

"Good point," Freya agreed. "I reckon we're talking about more than 'a few drops' here. And this explains why they were trying to snatch you from the palace and not me. If all they need is semi-divine blood it makes more sense to take you than try to transport…" she bared her teeth insolently. "Dangerous goods."

They turned back to find the crusaders they had been fighting hovering between them and the main Fist army. Freya startled. She had forgotten all about them and they had been wisely keeping quiet. Corwin stepped smartly between the enemy soldiers and the Grand Duke.

"You put a river between me and more gold than I can count!" growled a hobgoblin mercenary. "I should cut you down where you stand!"

Freya looked the creature up and down doubtfully. The motley band, whom she was capable of taking down single handed, had been outnumbered before. Now they stood before the entire army of Baldur's Gate.

"I guess you could try?" she shrugged.

"I fight for gold, and gold doesn't care whether you live or die," the tough talking mercenary seemed to reconsider.

He made to lead his troops away.

"Do you want to arrest them, Sir?" Freya asked over her shoulder. The Duke shook his head.

"We don't have enough food or shelter for our actual citizens never mind crusaders," he replied.

"Best to let them disperse and go home," agreed Arrow.

But there was a soft slither of metal. Freya had drawn both her swords. Getting the picture, Edwin and Baeloth began to chant and Viconia's flaming blade materialized in her hand. All of them were beaten to it by an arrow from Corwin which sizzled through the air with an acrid stench and buried itself into the hobgoblin's chest. As he fell an acid hole began to eat its way around the wound.

"Wait!" called Rasaad, but it was too late. The remaining crusaders, deciding they may as well try to fight their way out, drew their weapons. The fight was over in seconds, leaving Safana to swoop vulture-like from body to body harvesting anything useful.

"What did you do that for?" demanded Arrow furiously, "They were leaving!"

"Yeah, to rejoin the crusade at the first opportunity" retorted Freya. "They were elites! They had gold and good weapons, weapons which we can pass to the quartermaster. He'll put better blades and shields into the Fist's hands and gold into mine. We were going to have to fight them sooner or later, I say fight them now!"

"You killed them just so you could sell their weapons?" Arrow snapped, repulsed. "You selfish cu-"

"I'm selfish?" barked Freya. "If I let them rejoin the crusade with _these,_ " she snatched an enchanted sword and a handful of wands from Safana and waved them under the ranger's nose, "They'll use them to slaughter the very soldiers who've been protecting us both all this time. Show some respect for the poor bastards whose job it is to die for you. Or failing that show some fucking gratitude!"

"For once we agree on something," said Corwin harshly. "Freya made the right call."

"I concur," said the Duke. "But now we'll need to find another way to cross the Winding Water. This is bad. Half of Baldur's Gate's trade came through here. We were having enough trouble dealing with the refugees. With the Coast Way impassable the city could fall into chaos. I need to return and warn them, quickly. Damn, Skie still has my horse!"

"One moment milord!" called Freya. She was hastily scribbling something on a piece of parchment. She signed it, rolled it up and took a seal from her bag. "Corwin! Fire arrow! I mean…" she glanced guiltily at the watching officers. "Sir, might I be permitted to borrow one of your fire arrows?"

The Captain held one out and Freya melted a small glob of wax over the flame to seal her letter. Then she handed it to the Duke.

"What is this?" he snapped.

"A love letter to your daughter, give it to her when you see her would you?" grinned Freya.

"When we get back to the city I swear by all the gods that I will have this woman muzzled!" railed the Duke.

"Not a unique idea milord. As it happens I already own several-"

"BEGONE!"

Difficult though it was to resist, Freya realised she would need to stop baiting him. The letter was of some import both for the city and her immediate situation. Her wealth was held in Baldur's Gate and much of it invested in the trading caravans. It was in her interest as much as the Duke's to avoid civil unrest, but Skie's father did not know that and the matter of her starting rank in the Flaming Fist had not yet been resolved. The destruction of the crossing represented an opportunity to kill both birds with one stone.

"It contains instructions to my bank manager regarding the repair of this bridge, milord," Freya said more seriously. "Least I could do as a loyal member of the Flaming Fist."

The Duke stared at the letter in her hand for a moment. He looked as though he would like nothing better than to tear the parchment up and force-feed it to her. Still he did not have the funds to repair the bridge and he suspected that Freya knew it. He was already regretting his spontaneous decision to offer a thousand gold pieces to whoever brought him Jayvis' head. It was an ill-considered gesture made in anger. He did not have the gold to make good on basic pay for the Flaming Fist, never mind lavish bonuses.

He reached out his hand for it, but Freya held it back.

"Now milord, about my rank."

"I see… it's like that is it?" he growled.

There followed a brief but brutal negotiation. Freya was unwilling to accept any position that enabled the rank and file to give her orders. Corwin was insistent that making her a high-ranking commander would cause jealousy and dissent amongst the long-serving officers, over whose heads she would be promoted. In the end they compromised at Sergeant. Technically she outranked everybody except Corwin but did not have any direct reports. They made a gentleman's agreement that she would refrain from giving orders to her fellow officers.

"So that was Caelar?" said Corwin, slightly breathlessly once that business was out of the way. Freya handed the Duke the letter releasing funds to repair the exploded crossing and he snatched his prize, before returning to the city. "I'm beginning to understand why so many flock to her banner. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't concerned."

"I'm not. Banners burn, sheep flee," grinned Freya. She raised her private water skin to Corwin and took a long drag. Then she corked it an added in a suddenly dark voice, "And would-be prophets who overstep themselves die."

"Let's head back to camp," replied Corwin, looking suddenly nervous. "With Tymora's help we might be able to make it to Boareskyr Bridge before the crusade sets up another ambush for us."

They gathered the stragglers and the army began their long, reluctant march to the next available crossing. Boareskyr bridge was a tenday march from their position. They had a lot of ground to cover and if they were to rendezvous with their allies in time they would need to cover it quickly.

Freya watched her Captain hollering her orders and mobilizing the caravan. It seemed to her that Corwin's interest in her had been less hostile in nature of late. For most women, the constant berating and name calling would have made them shrug off any idea of Corwin having a crush. Freya, however, was not well-endowed in the modesty department. She knew exactly what she looked like and did not doubt for an instant that the other woman fancied her, though it was obvious that she didn't want to.

The werewolf watched her appraisingly, weighing up the merits of an indisputably attractive figure against a personality that would be right at home amongst the demons of Avernus. Corwin caught her gaze.

"Is there something I can do for you Freya?" she asked harshly.

"I am trying to think of an answer to that which won't get me slapped," replied Freya. Corwin's eyes narrowed menacingly. "And failing miserably apparently. Or perhaps not so miserably. Some things are worth getting slapped for."

"Look around you Freya. Are you in a tavern? A whorehouse? No? Then grow up! We have work to do. You have work to do. Stop playing the fool and do it!" Corwin turned on her heel and marched away, leaving Freya chuckling to herself.

"She's right you know!"

Freya cast around for the source of her chirpy critic. She looked down and down further. Glint, the blue-haired gnome, was gazing up at her. His pleasantly neutral demeanour would befit someone with nothing more interesting to discuss than the weather. Yet Freya got the impression that the little man had something significant to say.

"Right that I've got work to do?" she looked around and shrugged. "Don't reckon I do actually. I've got marching to do. Again. But work? Not right now, unless you have any suggestions."

"I meant more… right about you not playing the fool," he said. Freya cocked her beautiful golden head to one side and blinked at him dumbly. "You know. Dribbling over Caelar, making jokes about the Duke's daughter, sleeping with any soldier who'll have you, trying to flirt with your commanding officer. That sort of thing."

"What does that have to do with you, pixie?" the werewolf growled, irritated.

"Probably more than you'd think, actually." Glint piped up defiantly. "When you go around acting up this stupid caricature it hurts the rest of us. Look, I'm a gnome. I'll always be ridiculous to them. But you... you're one of the most powerful people in the Sword Coast. You're beautiful, famous and people look up to you!"

"Then 'people' are even dumber than I am," said Freya airily.

"You're the public face of people like us in Baldur's Gate, Freya!" the gnome finally dropped his personable veneer and snapped. "And how you represent yourself has consequences for the rest of us, whether you like it or not! Refusing to acknowledge that responsibility won't make it go away. Can't you just try to be... to be... _better?_ "

"I don't know what to say to that," said Freya, nonplussed.

"Why not try saying nothing for once!" suggested Glint, his usual affable smile returning. "In your case ninety-nine times out of a hundred that would be a vast improvement!"

He hurried away into the forest of legs. Freya scowled after him.

That night, when they stopped to make camp, she found herself still bothered by the gnome's observation. She looked around her party who were gathered with their ales near the quarter master's tent. The elves were having an intense conversation in drow. Edwin was muttering into his tankard and glaring at Dynaheir. She had no desire to share her thoughts with Corwin, she already knew exactly what the Captain thought.

"Rasaad!" she said, spreading out her cloak and flopping down onto the grass beside him. "Question. Do you think I play the fool?"

"Sometimes," Rasaad replied calmly. This was not the response she had expected or wanted. Freya's glower deepened. "Forgive me. I had assumed it was intentional."

"Glint said I should 'try to be better.'"

"We should all try to be better," agreed the monk. A young lad was puttering from officer to officer refilling their tankards with watered-down grog. Freya dismissed him with a handwave and pulled out her own waterskin. "For instance, you could start by emptying the current content of your 'waterskin' and try filling it with actual water."

"I don't like your advice," she said, flatly. "I use the waterskin in case Irenicus pays someone to drug me. Ok. _And_ it's alcohol. But I've been having Edwin taste my food too. Weird stuff has been happening on this march. I keep coming back to my tent to find my stuff has been messed with, symbols I don't recognize scrawled on the walls of my tent. Someone here is working for the Hooded Man."

"You are certain of that?" asked Rasaad, thinking guiltily of the offer Irenicus had made to him and his suspicions about Safana.

"No," replied Freya grimly. "It's a gut feeling."

The quartermaster and his mate were not far behind with dinner. Tonight's special was boot-tough mutton with a side of mashed potatoes. Only he had not had any potatoes, so he had mashed together whatever came to hand. Beetroots, parsnips, a large quantity of boiled cabbage and an unfortunate hungry rat who strayed too close to the cooking pot. It tasted terrible.

"Did you hear about those kidnappings in Baldur's Gate?" the quartermaster asked as he doled out their portions. "It's not a good time to be a worshiper of Selune. No offense you two."

The Selunites nodded and raised their spoons to their mouths. Rasaad took a bite and choked. Freya's mouthful only made it halfway to her nose before she winced and lowered it again. Possibly to distract them from the revolting nature of his cooking, the quartermaster doled up another rumour.

"You heard about the new recruit, right?" he asked, "She's a comely lass, but she can't open her mouth without complaining. She's driving her commanding officer mad but every time he tries to discipline her, Bence Duncan steps in. It's driving her unit up the wall."

"Aye, she has that effect," sighed Freya.

"So, this is rich, you're going to love this," grinned the quartermaster, leaning in toward them. He spoke the next words so low as to barely be heard over the crackle of the campfire. "Word is she and Corporal Duncan are sharing bedrolls. That's why she has him wrapped around her little finger. But you didn't hear it from me!"

Never had a gossip so badly misjudged his audience. The werewolf moved so fast that the unfortunate quartermaster was held aloft for several seconds before he realised what had happened and started squealing. She held him by his collar and snarled into his face. He was saved by the monk's swift chop to Freya's elbow, which forced her to bend her arm and let go. Rasaad had to bodily drag her back before she beat the rumour-monger to a pulp.

"Do not," Freya panted, "Speak about her like that again!"

"No Sir, sorry Sir!" gasped the quartermaster. The Hero was giving him such a black look that he was sure she would have gone for him again, had Rasaad not reminded her that it was time for their meditations and steered her firmly away.

"Haha! You dope!" snorted Officer Brielle once the Selunites were safely out of earshot.

"What do you mean?" demanded the startled quartermaster, rubbing his collar.

"Don't you know who the new recruit is?" she grinned in an excited whisper. The man shook his head. "Blow me, I thought everybody did! Well, you remember I spent some time with Freya back in Baldur's Gate? I saw that girl in the palace a lot. She's Skie Silvershield, the Duke's daughter!"

" _What?_ " gaped the quartermaster. "What's she doing here with the common soldiers?"

"She joined under a false name," said Brielle.

"But why?" he asked. More Flaming Fist officers were gathering around them now. Most knew or suspected who the girl was. Many of them, after all, had been tasked with guarding the Ducal Palace.

"Obvious isn't it?" asked Brielle smugly, with a significant glance at the Hero, who was settling into a meditating position at the edge of camp. "She's here for _her._ "

"Yeah!" agreed another soldier. "I was there when Freya stopped Sarevok from murdering the council. Skie kissed her after, and you should have seen the Duke's face! Turned out it wasn't really Skie, just a doppelganger, but the Hero was really into it. Everyone said it was unrequited love. But _I_ say in that case why is Skie here? Explain that!"

"Blimmin' heck! No wonder she went for me!" gulped the quartermaster, massaging his throat.

The gossip flowed on and it was not long before, unbeknownst to their commanders, the entire camp were in agreement. Skie Silvershield had defied her evil father to join the Flaming Fist. Just to be with her forbidden lover, the Hero of Baldur's Gate.

Though Skie had no notion of the reason for it, she found the attitudes of her fellow officers shifting in the following days. Far from impatience, people were going out of their way to be nice to her and make her stay in the camp comfortable. Their tone changed from jealous and irritated to admiring. At first she thought that she was being mocked but it was too consistent to be disingenuous. The charismatic Bitch of Baldur's Gate was near worshipped by the Flaming Fist and the rumour of her illicit romance easily captured their hearts and imaginations.

Theirs were not the only attitudes to soften. Rasaad found that Arrow had stopped avoiding him and was speaking to him again. Every so often she was offering a few tentative smiles which made his heart leap. After a few days march he even felt safe to offer an apology for his 'ill-judged comments' about watching her fight.

"You didn't say anything terrible Rasaad," sighed Arrow. "You looked at me. That's not a crime."

"It gladdens me to hear it," he said hesitantly. "Now I can return to my tasks with a lighter heart."

"You don't have to run off so quickly," said Arrow, placing her fingers lightly on his arm. Since her conversation with Freya, she no longer felt angry with him for constantly getting cold feet about their relationship. Yet at the same time she was cautious about leaving herself open to being hurt again.

"You, wish me to stay?" Rasaad asked, failing to keep the hopeful note out of his voice.

Her pulse quickened at the idea of him staying with her but she fought it down. From what the werewolf had described of their Selunite upbringing, the monk thought that he was doing something terribly wrong just by looking at her. Introducing anything physical would only panic him into running off again.

"I get tense. I don't… belong here," she said. "I'm supposed to be ranging the Cloud Peaks or back in the Chapel of Ilmater. It's like I got swept up in Freya's crazy tornado. I feel so useless and awkward here. It's difficult sometimes but you distract me."

"You can be something of a distraction yourself," Rasaad said shyly. Arrow turned pink. "For a monk there is no greater virtue than self-control. We must learn to master our bodies and our minds. Your presence makes that difficult sometimes."

"You…" Arrow felt anxious letting her guard down with Rasaad, but she decided to take the risk and laced his fingers in her own. The monk inhaled sharply but did not pull away. "When you fight, you have caught my eye from time to time too."

"I work hard on maintaining my physical strength," Rasaad mumbled, unable to look her in the eye. "I am glad that you appreciate my discipline."

"I can tell you work at it," she blushed. "Your dedication inspires me… I mean anyone. Everyone. You are very inspirational."

"Thank you," he said. Then he did pull his hand away, as if he feared that this tiny amount of physical contact would cause him to lose his self-control. "Now I should concentrate on the matter at hand. We shall talk later. I am sure."


	19. For the Spider Queen

"You monks like metaphors right, Rasaad?" asked Freya on the second day of their march.

"Indeed," he replied, "The use of examples to help illuminate the teachings of the Sun Soul is-"

"Yeah, yeah I know. I was practically raised by you people," the werewolf cut him off. She pointed discretely at Viconia. "See what she's doing?"

"Cooking," said Rasaad curiously. The cleric had hung a little pan full of chopped roots over the fire. Now she was skinning rabbits from Arrow's snares, cursing at how loose strands of fur were sticking to the wet meat. He frowned and concentrated. "She added the vegetables first."

"Yup. Those are going to be some soggy carrots, but cut the woman some slack," shrugged Freya, "She's probably used to having slaves to cook for her. Not my point. Now, you see how Viconia has put a lid on that pot. From the outside the pot looks calm and still, does it not?"

"But inside it is bubbling and steaming," agreed Rasaad. "Ah I see. A perfect metaphor for the political situation that Duke Silvershield is facing!"

Freya screwed up her face and gave him a look.

"A perfect metaphor for your sexuality," she corrected him. Rasaad swallowed his mead the wrong way and started coughing. The werewolf thumped him on the back helpfully and continued. "See your denial of your need to get laid is similar to the way Viconia is ignoring the stew. If she does not lift the lid a little soon to release the pressure, it will explode and cover her in half-cooked turnips."

Rasaad continued hacking as his face turned a vivid red. Freya was correct about Viconia's pan. It started jolting and making threatening rattling and hissing noises. The huge golden warrior shuffled down and lazily shifted the lid a fraction with her boot. A relieved whistle of steam shot out. Viconia looked up from her rabbits and scowled at Freya with evil, red eyes.

"Ah. So what you are saying then," Rasaad said, recovering himself somewhat, "Is that ignoring unwanted feelings is not an effective way to rid oneself of them."

"What I was actually saying," said Freya leaning her head a fraction closer, "Is that if you don't go and jerk off soon, your cock will explode in your sleep and make a mess."

Rasaad picked up his bowl, rose sharply to his feet and stomped decisively to the other side of the campfire looking furious. There was a stifled squeaking noise. For a moment it sounded as though Minsc and Boo were about, but it was just Viconia's peculiar laughter.

"I assume that is how it works?" Freya heckled his retreating back loudly. She thought for a moment. "Hey, actually there's a question! Viconia? Hey Viconia? Quit that squeaking and enlighten me! When blokes cum what kind of range have they got? And is it unidirectional like a pump, or more a sort of spray?"

"You're never tempted to find out for yourself?" snapped Viconia, irritably.

"Nah, not really," shrugged Freya. "I mean I did chew over the idea of trying on Coran's gender changing girdle once but-"

"I meant having sex with a man yourself," said Viconia. Freya snorted with derision at the notion. She looked at Rasaad. She looked at Edwin. She looked a _little bit longer_ at Baeloth whose hair was undeniably very pretty, but in the end, she wrinkled up her nose at him too.

"Nope," she said decisively.

"How do you know you don't like it if you've never tried?" Edwin asked, adding, "Careful Edwin, do not let the unrefined, slobbering canine mistake idle curiosity for active interest."

"There are plenty of things I don't have to try to know that I'm not going to like them," said Freya glibly, "Viconia's boiled carrots for instance." The drow threw a ladle at her, which she ducked. It splashed stew juice over Edwin who cursed his misfortune at being landed in this troop of chimpanzees. "Well let me flip that question Viccy. How do you know you don't like sex with women if you've never tried it?"

"Who says I've never tried it? We had servants to suit all tastes in Menzobarranzen," said Viconia. This time it was the werewolf's turn to choke on her drink.

"Hey Rasaad! I regret starting this conversation!" Freya hollered across the firepit to the monk, who was stoically pretending to ignore her. "I reckon that mental image is going to cause both our pots to blow up now!"

The poor monk put his burning face into his palms and groaned audibly. He had not indulged in the course of action that Freya was suggesting in many months. There had been an unfortunate incident involving Arrow, Viconia and a succubus in Durlag's tower after which he had sworn never to submit to such unhealthy urges again. It was requiring all of his self-discipline though, and the way the werewolf casually tossed the subject around (a habit Rasaad suspected she had picked up from Coran) was not helping.

That night as he headed into his tent, Freya clapped him on his muscular shoulder and said bracingly; "In all seriousness though, let off some steam. I'm your commanding officer and I am giving you an order."

"You cannot say things like that!" whimpered Rasaad, to whom locker room talk was an alien concept.

"You'll be fine. Just think of Arrow's fat arse and have at it!" grinned Freya. Her sense of humour had been fairly vulgar even before leaving Candlekeep. Combined with Coran as a best mate and mentor, there was very little left that she considered off-limits.

"I would not describe Arrow as having a- a- a-"

"Fat arse? Good gods, I would! So do I, had you noticed?" declared Freya. Beads of perspiration started to appear on the strained monk's shaven head. "And Sarevok's backside was pretty stonking for a bloke's too. Eric was half-starved, I couldn't tell with him, but me and Skie have this theory that Bhaal had a type."

"Are you suggesting," Rasaad took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, "That when the Lord of Murder was deciding which of the volunteering priestesses should be the mothers of his offspring, he made his selection based on the size of their posteriors?"

"I reckon!" said Freya seriously. "But think how much that sucks for me."

"Why?" asked the monk, utterly defeated.

"Well I inherited my father's preferences _and_ my mother's butt!" cried Freya. "Which means I'm constantly walking around trying to check out my own backside!"

At last Freya's crude attempts to persuade Rasaad to lighten up bore some fruit. Despite knowing that he should not take amusement in such base humour, the corners of his mouth started to flicker up, bending the lines of his tattoos with them. Especially when Freya demonstrated craning her neck around to watch her own bum, causing her to spin around in circles like a dog chasing its tail.

"You are the most appalling person I have ever met," he told her without exaggeration. But he was laughing a little just the same.

Freya bounded back to her own tent and he opened the flap to his own, smiling and shaking his head exasperatedly. He found his eyes drawn across the camp to where Arrow had pitched the small tent she was sharing with Dynaheir. She caught his eye and returned his smile shyly before ducking into it. It was necessary for her to bend over to do this. The conversation with Freya still fresh in his mind, Rasaad turned rather red and hastily disappeared into his own berth.

Perhaps he was expecting too much of himself, he pondered. Far from making him calmer, months of abstaining from doing what… what everybody else did… even found trivial enough to joke about… seemed to have made him more easily distracted. If another monk had come to him asking advice on this subject, he probably would not have suggested such a draconian set of rules.

After ensuring that the flap of his tent was very securely fastened, he replayed Arrow smiling at him in his head. Only this time, in his mind, when she bent over to duck into the tent, she pulled him in after her. Rather than arranging his clothes in the usual neat piles by his bedroll, he undressed hastily and climbed into his blankets. He had been throbbing painfully from the moment Freya brought up the subject of Arowan's attributes, which he sometimes felt were driving him slowly insane. What he was about to do didn't seem so wrong anymore though. Not when Arrow was flirting with him again. He thought of her smiling shyly and slipping her fingers around his. 

The repressed young man grasped himself and stroked his length frantically, gritting his teeth and burying his face into the pillow. To say he enjoyed himself might be stretching the truth. He enjoyed it in the sense that a drowning man enjoys fleeting gulps of air. He was meeting an agonizing need rather than having fun, one that he had starved his body of for far longer than was reasonable. Within a few seconds of frantic activity he shuddered and fell still and, feeling calmer than he had in months, he collapsed into a long, solid sleep.

Rasaad was not the only member of Freya's party struggling with his faith. Viconia settled down into her tent, where Edwin's place at her feet had been supplanted by Baeloth. As she hovered at the edge of sleep, her fellow drow curled up in a ball, fidgeting with his toes and fretting.

He had been unable to sleep properly for days. Viconia had taken him in and was (by drow standards) a relatively kind mistress. So far she had not tortured him for her own amusement, rifled through his belongings to take any that struck her fancy or even insulted him much. Yet she had been foolish enough to betray the Spider Queen, which allowed him but one course of action.

Baeloth looked up sharply, breathing heavily. His expression was a strange mixture of fear, intent and regret. She was a good matron, he had certainly endured much worse. But she had made an enemy of the drow goddess Lolth and for all his failings, he had not. So long as he did not cross her, he might be overlooked and spared. Lolth had rules though, strict rules, as to what was to happen to apostates. If he failed to carry out his duty, he would share Viconia's fate.

Viconia heard a rustle and woke to find Baeloth standing over her holding a knife. The light glinted off its blade and she barely registered his mouthed apology as it plunged toward her throat.

Before he could strike, however, a deep unnatural cold filled the tent. The lantern blew out and what light came from outside was barely enough to discern outlines. The air around them took on a sticky, clingy quality, like walking through cobwebs. The drow tried to shake them off but it was impossible. Then came the voice, commanding and irresistible, reverberating in their skulls with a fearful power.

_You will not! Stay your blade worthless male!_

The voice was like nails scraping down his soul. Baeloth dropped his dagger and moaned. The next thing Viconia knew, her would-be assassin was flat on the ground, sobbing with fear.

"My goddess speaks to me!" Baeloth flung himself prostrate in terror. Any thoughts Viconia might have had of running her flaming sword through him were driven aside by her former goddess's presence.

_Viconia you treacherous wasp! Once you are no longer needed you cannot conceive of the horrors I have in store for you!_

"Shar save me!" screamed Viconia, appealing desperately to her patron deity to come to her aid.

A terrible cackling laughter filled the tent. It sounded like the clicking of a thousand spider mandibles, and the rustling of endless spindly legs. Tears rolled unbidden down Viconia's face. She had to attempt some sort of spell to defend herself but the presence of Lolth paralysed her with fear.

_You are a fool to place your hope in the Night Singer, little fly. She saved you when you came crawling to the surface, yes, but Shar does nothing out of kindness. Nothing… nothing…_

The voice faded to emptiness and the sense of doom lifted from the two drow. Viconia looked about her panting while Baeloth lay sobbing on the floor, too petrified to lift his head. Lolth had spoken to her once before in the time since she had come to the surface world. Just before Montaron had stabbed her in the back. At the time she had assumed that the Spider Queen was gloating over her impending death. Yet she had not died. Was it possible that she had Lolth to thank for the halfling's weapon missing its mark?

"Once I am no longer needed?" Viconia echoed sharply, trying to suppress her own fear. She gave the snivelling male at her feet a sharp kick to make herself feel stronger. "Needed for what?"


	20. Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating kinda fast at the moment because I wrote most of the Bitch of Baldur's Gate before starting Shifting Targets, so it is mainly proofing and filling a few gaps. The spy plot is a bit of a cheesy who-dunnit, so I apologise for the cliché, but there is a story arc point to all this.

Boareskyr Bridge was their last chance to cross the Winding Water in time to stop the crusade. Ten days march to the North, it was a landmark with a tainted history. For it was on this bridge that the mad god Cyric had murdered Bhaal.

As they neared the crossing it seemed to Arrow that Freya was growing increasingly uneasy. She started remarking, with an edgy voice about familiar looking cliffs, bends in the river, even old trees. Yet she had never set foot in the place before. The ranger had little time to worry about the werewolf though.

Imoen's headaches were growing worse, to the point where she now needed to be carried by cart alongside the provisions. At night she barely slept but lay whimpering and clutching her head, begging the clerics to make it stop. By the ninth day of marching, Arrow was so concerned about her that she refused to leave her side to go adventuring when Captain Corwin approached her. Whatever problems the Flaming Fist had run into, Freya and her party would have to deal with them.

"Excuse me, Sergeant Candlekeep?" Corwin's acne ridden messenger boy ventured to the flap of her tent. Freya looked up from between Skie's thighs and groaned. She liked the lad, though for the life of her she could not remember his name. They'd first met when she was a prisoner of the Iron Throne, but in spite of this she was fond of him. He took care of his old nan like a good boy. She didn't want to be too hard on him.

"Get lost, drills aren't until seventh watch!" hollered Skie, who had none of Freya's scruples.

"Oh! Officer Silver- I mean Gold-buckler!" the boy yelped. "Bence and Corwin want to see the Sarge but I'll tell 'em I couldn't find you."

"Be there in ten!" Freya assured him in a muffled yell.

" _What in the hells am I doing?"_ Freya thought, as she flicked her tongue back and forth gently, but she did not stop. Skie had long been in the habit of coming into her room in the Ducal Palace, sharing her baths and generally being more tactile than was usual for friends. It had come as no great surprise, therefore, when the aristocrat invited herself to share her new bed. As the third highest ranking officer in the Fist after Corwin and the Duke, her lodgings were far more comfortable now than Skie's standard-issue bunk.

They'd been talking late into the evening and Freya had drunk a bit too much out of her private hip flask. Skie had been grumbling about how Eldoth had _never_ bothered to go down on her and how Bence tried his best, but in the end she'd gotten so bored she'd wound up faking. These unsurprising but unwelcome revelations had prompted Freya to drink even more. But when Skie voiced the opinion that Arrow was so lucky to have taken a tumble with Coran, the werewolf could no longer suppress a derisive snort. She had told the noblewoman, with certainty, that she was better than Coran.

To her surprise, Skie had challenged her to prove it, and they'd been doing this almost every night since. Every night she wasn't bedding down with Bence Duncan. The whole situation was leaving Freya thoroughly confused and miserable.

Skie shuddered with pleasure and lay flat on the bedroll, gasping and catching her breath. By the time she opened her eyes and looked up, the Hero was already refastening her armour and halfway out of the tent.

"How come you never let me do you?" Skie complained. She propped herself up on one elbow, watching as Freya hastily refastened her breastplate and threw on her Flaming Fist cloak.

"Do not have time to get into that right now," replied Freya evasively.

"I don't mind, you know," Skie assured her. A muscle twitched in the Sergeant's tired jaw.

"And they say romance is dead," replied Freya, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Ugh!" Skie flounced, sitting up in her bedroll crossly. Her hair was strewn over her face and she scowled at the werewolf petulantly. " _Now_ what did I say?"

"I _'don't mind'_ taking your shifts on latrine duty for you Skie but I wouldn't exactly say I relish the task," Freya said with a sad half-smile. "Nah, I gotta go. Don't want to keep Captain Critical and her lapdog waiting."

"Don't call Bence a lapdog," Skie defended him. "He's a nice man. I like him."

"So I hear," muttered Freya dourly.

"Don't be like that," Skie said warningly. "I am not your girlfriend. I like men. You knew that when we started doing… this."

"As I recall I was too drunk to know _anything,_ " Freya retorted. "Sod it. Do what you like with Bence. I don't care."

But that was a lie. As she approached the Captain and her deputy, Bence's expression of barely veiled hatred told her that she was not the only one unhappy about their new setup. So far he had said nothing about it, and Freya certainly wasn't about to bring it up. A light breeze picked up, catching Corwin's hair. Skie detested Corwin. Freya couldn't help wondering how the noblewoman would react to a dose of her own medicine if she came to her tent and found the Captain there instead.

"The word on the road is that Caelar's forces have taken Boareskyr Bridge and surrounded Bridgefort," Bence reported. "We'll not cross the Winding Water until they're dealt with. If Freya-"

"Sergeant Candlekeep," Captain Corwin corrected him.

"That's not even a rank in the Fist hierarchy!" protested Bence.

"It is now," snapped Corwin, not entirely happily. "It's necessary Corporal. Nobody directly reports to her, but only I outrank her and can give her orders."

"You outrank _me?_ " Bence looked horrified. "Captain you cannot be serious, I-"

"I won't order you and you can't order me," Freya glared at him suspiciously. "Why are you so determined to have that power Corporal? You haven't been visited by a hooded stranger by any chance have you?"

Bence swore and flung his sword on the ground. A few Fist Officers looked around idly at his loss of temper, but when it became apparent that he wasn't going to fight Freya they soon lost interest. The banners of Baldur's Gate and the Flaming Fist flapped and billowed in the wind above their heads. Corwin eyed them for a moment with a pensive expression. If they could not even maintain a cohesive unit in the camp, what hope was there for the city?

"I have known Bence for years. I trust his loyalty to the Gate more than I trust yours," Corwin rebuked the Sergeant. "He is not a spy."

"Somebody here is," growled Freya. "They slipped a tracking ward-stone into my pack this morning. Luckily I have my own mages and they detected it before we went ranging anywhere."

"Check again tomorrow," frowned Corwin, looking worried. "We're going to have to range in the morning and our task will be dangerous enough without Irenicus's involvement. We need to find a way to contact the garrison in Bridgefort. I'm not sure how, but if we scout out the area hopefully a means will present itself. Try to get a good night's sleep, we leave at dawn."

That night the werewolf did not heed her advice. Instead she got blind drunk, fluttered her lashes at every officer who happened by and went to bed with the first one who flirted back. Far from refreshed, the next morning Freya stumbled out of her tent and vomited on the grass. The anonymous officer who had shared her bedroll emerged looking embarrassed and dishevelled, took one glance at her heaving, indifferent lover and scuttled away.

"And who was she...?" probed Glint, disapprovingly, when Freya was done purging her system. The werewolf shrugged irritably.

"Buggered if I know," she yawned. "Now either make me a hangover potion, cleric, or sod off."

It was a chilly morning. A damp mist hovered in the air, slowly soaking through their clothes and filtering into their boots. There was no standing water to bathe in, so Freya sloshed out her mouth, transformed and rolled around in the dewy grass. Viconia snapped her fingers, prompting Baeloth to break off his conversation with Edwin and come hurrying over with tea for herself and Safana. Edwin raised no objection. He was happy to let Baeloth take his place under the heel of Viconia's boot. Thief and cleric sipped their tea and watched the werewolf dispassionately as she shook her fur out and resumed a slightly cleaner human form

"Typical of a dog to be constantly chasing pussy," remarked Safana spitefully.

"Oh there's one I've not heard before," said Freya with a grim smile.

"You ought to have been a cat, not a dog," said Viconia.

"Why?" asked Freya suspiciously.

"Because you'd rather chase birds than sticks," smiled Viconia. Freya ground her back teeth in irritation but Safana smiled and smacked palms with the drow.

Viconia's confident façade and the steady hands with which Baeloth brought her tea belied the fact that the drow were both rather shaken. She had forgiven Baeloth for his attempt to sacrifice her to Lolth. Having lived most of her own life in terror of the Spider Queen, she could not really fault him for lacking the courage to risk offending her. The male was utterly bemused by the whole situation but too traumatized to question it.

"Don't let my lack of reaction fool you," Freya sighed wearily. Her head was throbbing from the excess wine. "I'm cracking up on the inside. Promise."

"You two are in no position to comment on anyone else's behaviour. Especially you, Safana," sneered Corwin, who was buckling her belt and getting ready to move out. "At least Freya isn't selling it."

Safana's eyes narrowed and she fingered the hilt of her dagger, but Corwin was head of the Flaming Fist. Retaliation would be futile.

"I wouldn't lose too much sleep over her," smirked Viconia in a low voice. "She's no innocent herself. I saw her saying goodbye to her brat outside the palace. The child's father was conspicuous by his absence."

Safana chuckled spitefully, but then her narrowed eyes fixed once more on the drow. The two of them had always got on reasonably well. In so far as either woman had female friends, that is what they were. Yet since they had defeated Tsolak, Viconia had gotten the distinct impression that the thief was giving her funny looks.

"Do you have a problem riviil?" she asked quietly. Safana surveyed her for a moment as if weighing up whether to answer. Then she jerked her head toward the treeline. It appeared that she wanted to speak to her in private. Viconia followed the brunette human curiously.

"You have a pretty neat racket going on here," Safana observed. She had tied her hair back into a bun in imitation of the Flaming Fist, but hers was loose and strands were escaping in an aesthetic sort of way. A bandana tied around her head and large hoop earrings were giving her a gypsy-like look. The drow idly fingered her own hair, thinking over whether tying it up would attract less attention.

"I beg your pardon?" Viconia asked defensively, dropping her silver lock.

"The 'lady of mystery thing,'" Safana elaborated. "The beautiful drow. Who is she? What is her story? Subtlety, it drives men crazy. Women too apparently," she added with a glance at Freya. "Maybe I'll give it a try someday."

"I wouldn't," replied Viconia acidly. "Subtlety is not in your nature."

"Then I won't be subtle," replied Safana. She led Viconia a few steps further into the trees so that they could not be seen from camp. Suddenly, to the cleric's alarm, the thief's dagger was drawn and at her throat. "One word of a prayer, cleric, and I will cut your windpipe," she hissed. "I know why you were so keen to come on this expedition with Freya. Irenicus made me the same offer."

"What offer?" Viconia spluttered, "What are you raving about?"

"Freya and I may have had our differences lately," Safana snarled, "But if you thought I was about to stand aside and let you hand her over to that… that monster… then you thought wrong. I grew up in the gutter. Courtesy of Freya, I now dine with nobility and sleep in the best inns in the city."

She pulled the stunning ruby that Freya had gifted her out of her pocket and held it up to Viconia's petrified face. It was the exact same colour as the drow's eyes, but much larger. The thief scraped the sharp edge down Viconia's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.

"Please, abbil, I-" Viconia choked, as Safana's dagger pressed into her elegant throat.

"Freya may be a bitch but she's also my bottomless coin bag and I won't give her up without a fight!" Safana promised.

"I don't know what you're talking about," whimpered Viconia as the dagger dug into her neck. "All I know of the Hooded Man is what Arowan told me from her visions. I swear it! I swear in Shar's name! Please let me go. Please."

Safana kept her knife pressed against Viconia's throat as she considered what to do. The drow was a follower of Shar, that made her a master of secrets and lies, and yet her gut instincts were screaming at her that the other woman was telling the truth. For all her flaws, Safana was not exactly an evil person. At least, no more so than Freya. It would be no good telling the werewolf of her suspicions. Freya was so petrified of the Hooded Man that she might be tempted to kill Viconia anyway, just to be on the safe side. At a minimum she would send her away, which in these dangerous times would probably amount to the same thing.

"I knew if Irenicus asked me to bring Freya to him, he'd be asking other people too!" Safana said, "So I came on this little expedition to keep an eye on my golden-goose. And I was right! Runes scrawled over Freya's tent in the night, a tracking wardstone slipped into her pack. He's got to somebody! Who is it?"

"I do not know, but it is not me!" insisted Viconia. "Irenicus has never spoken to me, and from what I hear he never would except as a last resort. Baeloth knows him from the Black Pits. He told me the despicable despot detesteddealing with drow. The sole reason he would have anything to do with Baeloth was because it was the only way to get his hands on Eric!"

At last the thief believed her. If only because her quoting of Baeloth's alliterative story rang true.

"Fine!" spat Safana, releasing Viconia. The cleric clutched at her neck, panting with relief. Her eyes were watering, but she had recently been visited by Lolth herself. There was a limit to how much a human female could frighten her now. "But I am watching you," Safana warned her. "One wrong move and I'll gut you in your sleep."

"I like you," smiled Viconia. "You remind me of my sisters back home."

Freya's party set out to scout for a way into Bridgefort. Rasaad was trying to convince Baeloth of the merits of Selune, though the drow had already had his fill of goddesses for the time being. Viconia watched Freya and Captain Corwin with narrowed red eyes. The two women seemed to be getting on a little better since the werewolf was formally sworn into the Fist. She was too far behind to hear what they were saying, but every now and then the two of them even laughed at each other's jokes, which was a first. Edwin trundled along beside her, cursing when his robes caught on brambles and complaining that they were not safely back in the camp.

They met with no resistance along the road apart from a family of wyverns. The great winged beasts were upwind of the party and had been intent on making a snack of them. As soon as they got a good sniff of Freya, they changed their minds and tried to fly away but it was too late. Mages and archer brought them down, and between them Freya and Rasaad ensured that they never took off again.

"Makes me a bit nostalgic for the old days," laughed Freya, prodding a dead wyvern with her boot. "None of this responsibility or politics crap. Just me, Coran and a pair of second hand swords."

Exploring a cave by the side of the road yielded a better prize. At first they found nothing in the dank, stinking orifice except spiders. Viconia took a particularly savage pleasure in slashing their egg sacs with her flaming sword, after Lolth's visitation. But they found no good loot and no decent enemies to fight. Corwin and Freya were bemoaning what a pointless waste of time it had been when the floor began to shake.

Returning to the main cavern brought them face to face with a colossal beetle. It was five times as long as Freya was tall with a rigid, steely shell. A great horn with the power of a mighty war-hammer protruded from its head. The creature turned to look at them, making the floor shiver as it did so. For a moment they thought it might be a peaceful beast. Then it charged.

Corwin cursed, but the werewolf laughed delightedly at this novelty adversary and drew her swords. It snapped at her with its mandibles at the same time as she swung them and they ended up locked together. She released it with one sword and smacked uselessly against its immovable shell. The creature seemed intelligent enough to realise that letting her other sword go would be a mistake. Instead it galloped toward the wall of the cavern, with the intent of squashing her against it.

Captain Corwin's arrows pinged harmlessly from its great flank, while Edwin and Baeloth found their spells unable to penetrate. Rasaad, whose kicks were likewise getting nowhere, seized the beetle by one of its hindlegs and hauled it backward to try and prevent it from crushing Freya. He failed to slow it, but the creature's own momentum tore its spindly leg off.

With a yell, Freya dropped the sword clutched in the beetle's mouth and skidded to the floor. With her remaining blade she hacked at the weak joints of the beetle's legs. It was an effective strategy but with one major flaw. As Rasaad wrenched off a second back leg and Freya sliced through one of the middle ones, the beast toppled.

"Shit!" screamed Freya, throwing herself flat and launching out from under it. Rasaad with his monastic training was fast enough to duck out from under the creature. The werewolf was not, and it landed on her legs, crushing the bones with a loud crunch. She howled in agony. "Fuckit, fuckit, fuckit…"

It took a series of carefully positioned magical blasts and Rasaad and Corwin's combined strength to roll the beetle off of her and onto it's back. The werewolf's legs were unnaturally flat beneath them, and bent to an angle which was sickening to look at. She groaned loudly in agony.

"I'll still take beetles over spiders," muttered Viconia, as she healed their leader.

"I wish this could have been handled differently," Rasaad sighed sadly, thinking of Arrow and missing her compassion. The monk plunged his seldom-used katana into the underbelly of the beetle. The creature was fatally crippled, and it was kinder to finish it quickly than subject it to a slow death by starvation or being eaten alive by other beetles.

"Well that was time well spent," said Corwin sarcastically.

"What is wrong with you miserable sods!" cried Freya. Her legs were healed as good as new, the pain already forgotten. "We just killed the biggest beetle in Faerun! Look at the size of it!"

"Congratulations you squashed a bug," replied Edwin. "Good thing she benefits from your civilizing influence Odesseiron, or she would probably try to eat it."

Freya, who'd had every intention of eating it, discretely stowed away her steak knife.

"Anything more?" asked Baeloth. "Or have we categorically conquered this cavern's cornucopia of creepy crawlies?"

"I reckon we're done here," Freya shrugged. "Do you reckon these things have gemstone hearts like basilisks?" She leapt up onto the beetle and sliced down hard. A sticky, rancid goo oozed out. If there was a treasure inside she would have to dive in to get at it. With a wrinkle of her pretty nose, she decided it could not be worth it, and jumped back down again.

"I do not understand Freya," Edwin moaned. "The camp is safe. Why do we not stay within it?"

Corwin gave a derisive snort. They followed her further into the wood. The party were moving parallel to the trail to avoid running into crusaders.

"Shut your mouth!" snapped Edwin. He took a deep breath and added to himself, "Ignore the monkeys, Odesseiron. Do not let them drag you down to their level."

"We need a way to deal with the blockade of Boareskyr Bridge," shrugged Freya. "If they blow that up too we're buggered. We'll never get to Dragonspear in time. The Shining Lady will annihilate our allies who have already crossed the Winding Water."

"I fear Caelar would leave few survivors," agreed Rasaad. "She is wholly convinced of the righteousness of her cause. Caelar will do great things if she is correct about the Dragonspear dead. Though 'if' is the crucial word in that sentence, I suppose."

"You sound like you admire her," Viconia arched an eyebrow.

"There is not a shred of doubt in her," agreed Rasaad. "Only clarity, certainty of her actions. Would that I had her strength."

" _Her_ strength? What about _mine_?" yelped Freya indignantly. "I could take down both of you blindfolded!"

Rasaad laughed out loud. He cultivated a serene, calm disposition but since joining Freya's party he had been laughing more. His was a slightly awkward laugh, through lack of practise, though his smile was bright and appealing. Viconia noted that his dark eyes twinkled when he laughed. The werewolf had even succeeded in drawing out her own laugh on occasion. Her real, squeaky, guinea-pig laugh that she tried to suppress because it made her seem weak. Despite the group's varied alignments there was no infighting in Freya's party. At least not in any serious way. It was a welcome change from Jaheira's dictatorship and Arrow's uncharismatic leadership.

"That was not the sort of strength I had in mind," he sighed. "Hold! There are people up ahead."

The party froze. Mages and cleric began casting defensive spells. Viconia was acutely aware that most of her healing magic had already been used on Freya's legs. These people did not look too dangerous for the most part, though. They were a rag-tag band of farmers armed with pitchforks. Viconia was wary of farmers from unpleasant experience, but they were no threat to the Hero of Baldur's Gate. Only two of them were warriors; a great bearded bard and a blonde half-elf wielding a staff.

"You! Identify yourself!" the half-elf instructed. The voice was very familiar.

"Oh no," Viconia and Edwin groaned simultaneously. Her hair may have changed and she might be missing her browbeaten husband but there was no mistaking that demanding yap. "Jaheira."

"You're Freya?" Jaheira demanded, arching an eyebrow.

"Jaheira?" cried Rasaad joyfully. Out of the three members of her former party, he alone was pleased to see her. Corwin, Baeloth and Freya had never met her.

She seemed far less happy with his presence. Her blue eyes narrowed. She half-ran toward them, crunching leaves and twigs beneath her feet, and barking questions at him as she went.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were going back to Calimport? And where is Arrow?" she asked imperiously. Rasaad hesitated, not sure which question to answer first, which earned the monk a prod in the ribs with her staff. "Where is Arowan, monk? If you have let any harm come to her I will-"

"Arrow is safe! Well!" Rasaad spoke hastily. "She is with the Flaming Fist army tending to Imoen's headaches. Forgive me, I did not recognize you. You have changed your hair."

"Yes… the hair." Jaheira's glare turned sharply to Freya. Despite the druid being barely half her weight, the werewolf backed up a step. "About that Freya,you and I owe each other something. You owe me an apology."

"Sorry," Freya mumbled humbly. She eyed Jaheira's fingers which were flexing around her heavy oaken staff. "What you owe me is going to involve that stick isn't it?"

"We'll call it an I-owe-you for now," the druid growled. "Collecting bandit scalps for a wig-maker? Idiot creature! Ah… and I see you have made some equally foolish friends."

Jaheira's gaze swept over the party taking in Viconia and Edwin. Judging by her contemptuous sneer, the silver-haired elf had lost none of her sense of self-satisfied superiority in the time that they had been apart. Her choice in clothing was very different though, moving away from revealing blacks and laces to neutral tan armour. No doubt this was to avoid drawing the attention of the Flaming Fist. Edwin was looking a little crumpled and tattered from long marching and living out of a tent. Other than that, the Thayan was as resplendent as ever in his gold-trimmed red robes.

"Arrow and I have been writing to each other, I am aware of your attempt on her life," Jaheira stated aggressively. "Perhaps I should repay your efforts?"

"Try it, mongrel!" spat Viconia.

"If you do not mind my asking, how did you come to be separated from Khalid?" Rasaad asked quickly, in the hope of distracting them.

"How did you come to be separated from Arowan?" Jaheira asked him accusingly, noting that he had Viconia with him. She turned to Freya, who looked thoroughly cowed already. "After you put an end to the iron crisis, Khalid and I decided to visit Bridgefort thinking that it would make a pleasant respite from Baldur's Gate, and it was. Until the crusaders took Boareskyr Bridge. I was trapped outside of Bridgefort, Khalid within."

"So you and this mighty army stand against the crusade," grinned Freya, raising a blonde eyebrow. "Doesn't seem a fair fight."

"They are many. We are few," retorted Jaheira stiffly.

The two women surveyed each other. It was the first time the pair had met in person but they had each long been aware of the other's existence. Freya had even seen her in visions, fighting in her dreams about Arrow's life. The druid's hair had been dark back then. Jaheira wore wigs after an accident over a decade ago robbed her of her original hair. Recently she had begun purchasing them from a store in Baldur's Gate run by Officer Jessa Vai. They were the nicest quality she had ever come across, indistinguishable from real human hair.

Unfortunately it had turned out that this was because they _were_ human hair. Officer Vai had offered a bounty for the scalps of bandits and then sold them on as wigs. Freya, Hero of Baldur's Gate, had unwittingly supplied the majority of these scalps. Arrow, with help from Freya and Imoen, had successfully shut the business down, but she and Khalid had agreed never to tell Jaheira that she had been wearing human-hide for a year. Apparently, though, her husband had cracked under that piercing blue gaze and told her the truth anyway.

"A thousand ill-trained crusaders are no match for me and the army I have behind me," shrugged Freya. She said it not so much as a boast as a statement of fact. "They are camped to the Southwest of here, and I reckon one of them will be pleased to see you."

"Excuse me," interjected the bearded warrior, "But vould there be any vine in this camp? Und do they velcome all who fight the crusade?"

Freya's grey, wolfish eyes turned on him and her lip began to curl. In addition to human instruments disagreeing with her canine ears, she had a history with musicians. Bad history. It was well known in Baldur's Gate that when the Hero entered a bar, the prudent bard would be well advised to wrap up his set and scarper. Suffice it to say that where the auditory arts were concerned, Freya was not keen.

"Pardon me Jaheira," growled Freya, drawing her sword, "But you appear to have contracted a bad case of bard. Would you like me to cure you of it?"

"This is Voghiln of Lustan," replied Jaheira warily. "A little too handsy but a fine warrior nonetheless. Without him we would have been taken by the crusade."

"We don't want a bard getting into the camp," said Freya. "They're like rats or cockroaches. Ignore one and before you know it you have an infestation. Vermin breed."

"Oh ja, ve certainly do!" promised Voghiln.

"I really do not think that this is called for!" protested Rasaad. "Voghiln stands against the crusade as we do, and you have only just met him."

"Fine. Go to the camp Voghiln," sighed Freya resignedly. "But Jaheira? Let me know if you change your mind about the pest control. It's a free service."

Despite her entirely unprovoked rudeness, Voghiln was looking at Freya with eyes as wide as saucers. As a skald, songs of great golden warrior women with vast bosoms and huge bottoms were a staple in his repertoire. To meet one in real life was a near-spiritual experience. He held out his hand to shake hers, or better yet kiss it. The werewolf looked at his hand, met his eyes and to his horror her face began to transform. Fur sprouted from her cheeks, her jaw elongated and her ears became pointed and fuzzy.

"Buggerrrr off barrrrrd," Freya growled. Voghiln turned a bit pale.

"Ja. Ja," he assured her. "I vill do that."

Once again, Rasaad attempted to defuse the situation by changing the subject.

"The southern bridge was destroyed, we need to get past the blockade around Boareskyr Bridge to cross the winding water," he said. "You mentioned Khalid was trapped in Bridgefort, do you have any means to contact him and the other defenders?"

"No, but there is another way into Bridgefort," Jaheira said. "A teleportation circle activated by a wardstone, but it was stolen by a priestess of Cyric. His cult have taken over a former temple of Bhaal in the area. They've been preying on the inhabitants of Bridgefort for some time. I was trying to find it, to return the wardstone and put an end to their activities."

"Sir. We should find this temple," Freya said to Corwin.

"Agreed Sergeant," the Captain concurred. "Jaheira, will you accompany us?"

"I would prefer to see my daughter first," the druid replied.

"Your… daughter?" Corwin squinted. Arrow and Jaheira were not even the same species.

"Adopted daughter," said Jaheira, daring the other woman to pass comment. Corwin raised her eyebrows but said nothing. The druid hefted her staff, using it as a walking stick, and led Voghiln and the refugees back to the camp.

"The Treehuggers are reuniting," muttered Viconia under her breath. "How very heart-warming."

"Arrow will be pleased to see her," said Rasaad repressively. Then he led her to one side for a private word. "Viconia, I must ask you something."

" _Finally!"_ The cleric smiled at him seductively. It had certainly taken him long enough to realise what he was missing. Irritatingly naive and unquestionably foolish though the muscular monk was, she had always wanted to tumble into the shadows with him. She did not, after all, desire the man for his brains.

He looked around, anxious to make sure that they were not overheard. Though he was far from certain that confiding in Viconia was a good idea, the tracking wardstone in Freya's possessions had rattled him badly. Edwin had detected that one (or more accurately Baeloth had detected it and Edwin had claimed the credit) but who was to say they'd find the next trap? Rasaad took a deep breath.

"What do you think of Safana?" he asked.

Viconia stopped preening and gaped in disbelief, red eyes bulging like a possessed frog.

"Safana?" she cried, livid. Rasaad tried to hush her, desperately, but it was too great an insult for Viconia to let go. " _SAFANA?_ "

"I know you two are friends," he expanded hastily. "I do not wish to make unfounded accusations only, Irenicus came to me before we left Baldur's Gate and tried to persuade me to betray Freya. I believe he may have made Safana the same offer."

"Oh!" Viconia squeaked, realising that she had got the wrong idea. She deflated a little, turned her attention from his biceps and tried to focus on what the monk was actually asking. "Yes. Yes he did."

Rasaad gasped. "How do you know this?" he cried, fixing her with his intense, dark eyes.

"Because Safana accused _me_ of being the spy," the cleric replied, rubbing her neck ruefully. "I thought she was going to kill me, but she was wasting her time. For some reason Irenicus doesn't deal with drow if he can avoid it. No, Freya is Safana's personal goldmine. She wouldn't harm her over Coran. She's greedier than she is jealous."

"So if I am not the spy, and Safana is not the spy, who is?" Rasaad asked, smacking a tree trunk with his fist in frustration and sending a cascade of leaves over them both. Sharran and Selunite looked at each other and said at the same time; "Edwin!"

Monk and cleric called the party to a halt and made their accusation. The words had barely left their lips before Freya's sword was half-way to decapitating the Red Wizard. He had tried to murder her friend, Dynaheir, and she had never liked him much. Edwin responded by launching a sustained fireball between them and himself. The red and orange tongues of flame twisted and danced, reflecting in his eyes, as he raised his voice to be heard over the fire's roar.

"I know nothing of this 'Irenicus' of whom these gibbering imbeciles speak!" he cried. "But I was made a similar proposition by a female vampire, calling itself Bodhi. Naturally, I declined. I am more than capable of destroying my enemies without the help of an animated corpse. Especially one who demanded additional payment in the form of _my_ magical artifacts!" Edwin did not mention the Soultaker dagger by name but he had no intention of parting with his hard-won treasure.

"Please accept my sincere apologies for suspecting you," said Rasaad. Edwin responded by dropping his wall of fire and spitting on the monk's feet.

"Vampire?" repeated Corwin. Her voice was angry and suspicious. Two officers had been killed on the march by a vampire. Having staked Tsolak, the Flaming Fist had assumed that the threat had been resolved. "And you waited until now to tell us this?"

"Tell me Freya," Edwin implored, "Which is the bigger problem: an undead monster unfairly staked, or the fact that we have a spy in our midst who means to sell you out? Even to an asinine hound like yourself it must be obvious that the Flaming Fist shrew has always hated you! Point your blade at her, not me!"

To Corwin's fury, Freya instructed Viconia to cast detect evil. She folded her arms and glared at the werewolf with smug defiance as the spell was laid and she remained her usual colour. A pale-pink, half-hearted aura surrounded the cleric herself, revealing her own alignment. Edwin and Baeloth glowed like the setting sun.

"Nothing we didn't already know," remarked the disgruntled Captain. "I guess the spy isn't any of us, and if you believe it isn't that whore Safana…"

"I do," said Freya. "And if you believe it isn't 'that whore' Bence…"

"Less of that," said Corwin acerbically.

"Which begs the question," growled Freya. "Who the hells is it?"


	21. The Temple of Cyric

The sun set over the camp, giving the tents an orange glow, like bonfires. As the banners of the Flaming Fist rustled gently above their heads, the officers, Skie among them, lined up in formation practising the same manoeuvres over and over. She looked up from under her helmet at Bence bellowing his orders and felt a twinge of guilt. Gauging Freya's reaction had been necessary though. Things were going poorly for her father in Baldur's Gate. It was said that the only rest the Flaming Fist got back home were a few hours before they were resurrected. Not bringing them back was no longer an option, there were too few of them, but it was plunging the Silvershield estate deeper and deeper into debt.

Baldur's Gate was a bomb with a lit fuse. Her father, the Duke, had seen the problem brewing for a long time but he had done nothing, pinning all his hopes on his son to raise their fortunes. Only the golden child had died, and the entire Silvershield dynasty was in danger of dying with him. Skie had the seed of an idea of how to fix things but it would be risky and difficult. She caught Bence's accusing gaze. He was a nicer boyfriend than Eldoth, but she was no longer so naive as to believe that she could really marry just anybody. Not if the Silvershields were to survive. She shook her head a fraction and he bitterly turned away.

As night enveloped the camp, Minsc sighed with frustrated boredom and tucked Boo into his pocket. The hamster emptied his bulging cheek pouches of the various seeds and crumbs he had accumulated during the day, and snuggled down into the warrior's broad chest. Dynaheir cast a worried glance over at Arrow who was trying to coax Imoen into drinking a little water. She whimpered and shook her head, clutching at her pink hair. Arrow looked beseechingly at Glint and M'khiin, but neither cleric nor shaman had any cures left to try.

As the adventurers in the camp retired to their bedrolls, one lone figure slipped unnoticed into the trees. They clung to the shadows, face covered by a heavy maroon cloak. A short distance from the camp, they came to a clearing and stopped with a nervous backward glance to check that they were not being tailed. When they looked forward again they let out a frightened gasp for two figures had silently crept into the glade. A dark-haired vampire in over-tight leathers and a tall man with a strange, mutilated appearance.

"Well?" Bodhi breathed eagerly, "Did you slip the tracking wardstone into Freya's belongings?"

"Yes…" the cloaked figure spoke, slowly and guiltily, "But her wizards found it before she left the camp."

The vampire snarled in frustration and scratched her yellowing nails at the nearest tree, tearing off a chunk of bark. It landed at the feet of the trembling spy. Irenicus grasped his sister's arm. The grip was rather too firm, causing Bodhi to wince and flinch away from him resentfully.

"Calm yourself sister," Irenicus spoke warningly.

"Is all this really necessary?" their agent asked, in a tone of voice that suggested that they would much rather not be doing this.

"I stood alone against the entire Flaming Fist when Eric and I landed in Baldur's Gate," Irenicus said. "Had it not been for the presence of the Hero things might have turned out differently. If your… our… cause is to flourish then Freya has to go!"

"Swear not to hurt her!" the agent said in the manner of somebody who desperately wanted to believe that the two would keep their word, rather than truly believing it to be so.

"Of course not!" smiled Bodhi sweetly. "We'll send her to a nice farm up in the Dale, don't you worry."

"We are sending her to werewolf island," Irenicus cut her off sharply. "She will be far better off there, among her own kind. Sooner or later if she remains in human society she will snap and there will be a bloodbath. All lycanthropes turn feral eventually. Name me one who didn't!"

"It just seems a little too convenient," the agent mumbled nervously. "An island full of werewolves and the pack cannot leave…"

"Werewolf island is real. It exists," Irenicus assured them. "If you doubt me you can ask Freya herself. She has been there."

The reluctant spy wrung their hands together and shivered in the cold night air. The waxing moon peeked from a gap in the dense, cloudy sky. It would be full before the week was out. Full moon was when Freya was at both her strongest and her weakest. Perhaps they could find a way to use this opportunity.

"If you could only see the state that the city is in," Irenicus said, sensing that their double-agent was wavering. "Refugees block every street, food is scarce, disease is rife, and the Grand Dukes do nothing. The people cry out for freedom! There will never be a better chance to replace the council, but that cannot happen while the Hero supports them. You know this!"

"I know it," sighed the cloaked traitor, resignedly. "It is not just her strength but her popularity. Too many will follow her lead and support the rule of the current Dukes, for as long as she does."

"Precisely," said Irenicus coldly. "So if you are serious about replacing them, you know what must be done."

Freya, meanwhile, had found the Temple of Cyric. After wandering in the region Jaheira had indicated for some time, they came across an abandoned campsite. The occupants (crusaders, judging by the personal effects they left behind) appeared to have been dragged away. Seizing the opportunity, Freya transformed and set her shiny wet nose to the task of sniffing them out.

The party followed her deep into the woods, to a large cavern partially concealed by climbing ivy. She stopped at the entrance and turned back, pressing her finger to her lips with an urgent expression. There was heavy breathing coming from inside the cave and through the gloom they could just make out the glint of a large pile of coins.

"Well bugger me with a pick axe," Freya breathed. "Never seen one of them before. Smells terrible."

"What is it?" asked Edwin. He tried to sound manly and authoritarian but there was a definite trace of fear on his lips.

"Dragon. Ok, give me a minute," the werewolf said.

She shuffled back from the cave entrance and made for a patch of dense bushes. The ivy had enveloped them too, and the original shrubbery was dead, but the covering of leaves was still thick enough to conceal a large person behind them. Provided that the person in question did not mind regiments of angry ants climbing up their bottom.

"What are you doing?" demanded Corwin.

"I'm taking a piss!" whispered Freya. "I'm not fighting a flaming dragon with a full bladder! Does anyone else need to go? Apart from Edwin, I reckon he's peed his robes already."

"Filthy beast!" muttered Edwin, adding; "Endure the insults for now, Odesseiron. As soon as the witch dies you may draw a line under this sorry business and return to civilization."

Bathroom breaks taken care of, the party returned to the cave and slipped inside as quietly as possible. Even the Hero's heart was thumping somewhat as they took in the sheer scale of the creature before them. It made the giant beetle look feeble by comparison. The dragon lay curled up sleeping, her fanged face tucked cosily under one vast emerald wing. Her scales rose and fell with her rancid breath, which was so powerful that it fanned their hair every time she exhaled.

Freya slipped off her boots and led the party quietly around it. At one point they froze, thinking the dragon was about to wake up. She grunted discontentedly and shifted in her sleep, swishing her enormous tail and sending a small avalanche of tinkling golden coins skittering down from her horde. There were sapphires glittering in that pile and flawless diamonds, too heavy to put into a pendant. The werewolf looked at them longingly, but kept the party moving until they had crossed the cave to a set of stairs leading down into the dark.

"Our less-than-lucid lycanthrope does not intend to lunge like a lunatic against this lethargic lizard?" asked Baeloth.

"He means he is surprised that you do not mean to fight the beast and claim her horde," translated Viconia helpfully. "We all are."

"I… can't," sighed Freya.

"So, the mad dog isn't totally lacking in common sense," muttered Corwin.

"It's not that," whispered Freya, looking wistfully at the dragon and fingering the hilts of her swords. "It's just that taking out a dragon was always mine and Coran's special thing. It doesn't feel right to slay one without him."

Rasaad was not entirely sure whether the mad-dog was joking or not. He certainly wouldn't put it past her. The monk caught Corwin's eye, and she grimaced and rolled her eyes at Freya. He smiled at her and shrugged helplessly and they descended the stairs after their leader. Viconia came down next, summoning her flaming sword for light, with Edwin and Baeloth bringing up the rear.

"One day I'd like to have a dungeon of my own," chuckled Edwin, looking around enviously at the branching labyrinth and rubbing his hands together. "I'll fill it with traps and monsters and lock all my treasure away where nobody can ever find it!"

"Great idea. You should invite us to a dungeon-warming party when you're done," suggested Freya innocently. She transformed again so that she could sniff the direction of the captives, then turned back. It would not be a great idea to do this too many more times without a break. Transforming could be somewhat fatiguing.

"So that you can plunder my riches? Is that your plan werewolf? I think not!" snapped Edwin. "I am watching you, you depraved brute. Always watching."

They followed the scent of the captured crusaders through the maze of tunnels, finding nothing more threatening along the way than a few mangy bugbears. Corwin was starting to doubt the accuracy of the werewolf's nose and had the party split up to search more tunnels. Freya was certain she knew what she smelled though, and continued down the tunnel alone until she finally ran into their first fellow human.

He wore long black robes trimmed with purple, and embroidered over the chest was a symbol. A jawless skull set against a purple sun. The mark was known across Faerun as the calling card of the mad god, Cyric. They were in the right place, but Freya could take no pleasure in this. This temple felt uncomfortably familiar, full of vague memories and feelings, like a half-remembered dream.

"Who are you?" cried the robed man. "Actually never mind I just want to get out of here!"

"That mark…" whispered Freya. Twisted sounds and images flashed through her mind.

_A laughing madman with a divine blade. Upstart! There was no way to escape this fate, but one could prepare for it. Split the lake into a thousand droplets just like Sarevok had said. The enemy would destroy the one last depleted droplet, but only one. The other droplets would fall in the end, and the lake would reform. The laughing lunatic… that mark…_

"Cyric!" screamed Freya, in a voice that was not her own. Swept on a tidal wave of rage and hatred she threw herself at the cultist. The man's mouth contorted into a ring of shock and fright. He drew his dagger but he had no chance against the werewolf, even though she had not bothered to draw her own weapons. She barely registered what she was doing as her fist slammed down into his skull over and over. By the time she regained her senses, what was left was barely recognizable as a face.

The man's right eye socket was so badly shattered that it no longer held in the eyeball. It dangled out of his head, attached by nothing but a thin ribbon of nerves and connective tissue. Where his nose used to be, there was now a bleeding hole speckled with crushed cartilage. Blood was pouring from the cheek, which had burst like the skin of a grape, and cracked bits of tooth were scattered over the floor.

Footsteps came hurrying down the corridor. Freya scrambled to her feet looking down in horror at her own handiwork. Her fist was dripping with the dead cultist's blood. A fragment of his bone was embedded into her knuckle but she had been too high on inexplicable rage to notice the pain.

"By Selune, what happened?" cried Rasaad.

"I… he attacked me!" lied Freya, too petrified at her own loss of self-control to tell the others the truth. "I didn't have time to draw my swords. He pretended to surrender, then pulled a blade on me as he went past."

"A Cyricist," remarked Corwin disdainfully, prodding the Dark Sun symbol with her boot. "Looks like we've found them. You shouldn't have trusted him in the first place, Freya, it's a death cult. He will have made hundreds of sacrifices to his mad god. Cyricists worship murder."

"Yeah, yeah that's right," nodded Freya, still badly shaken but comforting herself with this notion. This man had deserved the violent end she dealt him. "They do."

Beyond the door that the cultist had just come through, they found the three crusaders. They had been locked in cages, presumably while they waited to be sacrificed. More to convince herself that she was not a murderous lunatic than out of genuine compassion, Freya decided to let these three go. They were not like the elites on the bridge but young and scrawny. Little more than canon fodder for the crusade.

"Help, let us out of here! Help!" cried the shortest of the three young men.

"Yeah no worries," said Freya distractedly. A wooden lever was placed conveniently by the cages. She tugged on it to let them out.

There was a hideous squelching noise and the party let out yells of shock. Six foot spikes erupted from the floor of the cage impaling the trapped crusaders. Each one was suspended between floor and ceiling on a spike. Two had been impaled by their abdomens and flopped backward, their unharmed faces could have been sleeping but for their wide, staring eyes. The shortest one had a spike shoot between his legs and straight up the middle, bisecting him neatly from bottom to top. Because there were still tendrils of flesh holding the two pieces together around the spike, gravity was very slowly pulling his halves down and apart, like a peeling banana. Drains were directing the blood away from their feet but only the drow, who were accustomed to this sort of thing, were managing not to gag.

"What the shit?" gasped Freya weakly, once she had managed to scrape her jaw off of the floor.

"Well at least it was quick," observed Corwin, looking a shade green.

Viconia reached into the cages and plucked the crusader badges from the dead recruits' chests. With the corner of Baeloth's robes she wiped the blood from them, explaining to a disgusted Corwin that they might be useful if they needed to send spies into the crusader ranks.

"It is not a very noble act to kill helpless prisoners," Rasaad remarked disapprovingly.

"I didn't do it on purpose, I was trying to let them out! I don't get it… what is the point of that?" yelped the werewolf. "If they're in the cages you've already trapped them. Just poke a spear through the bars to finish them off, it's a lot less effort than floor spikes. Those things must have taken months to install! And who cleans them? I mean seriously! Why bother?"

"Because they're maaaaad!" cackled a voice from the corner. "Mad followers of a mad god." She leaned forward eagerly, reaching a wrinkled deathly white arm through the bars. "My master would have had us use a spear or a dagger! Our lord was a craftsman of murder, theirs is a mere showman."

"Who the hell are you?" snapped Corwin. Viconia stepped forward and held her flaming sword up to the cage. Inside squatted a frail, emaciated woman. She was unclothed save for a loincloth, though this hardly mattered because her skin was so saggy that her breasts were just slightly larger wrinkles. Her quick, darting head perching on its overlong neck put Corwin in mind of the ostriches from the circus. Only those birds had eyes in their sockets. This woman had nothing but red, crusted knots of concave scar tissue.

"Forgotten servant to a forgotten god," the woman answered in a bitter, sing-song voice. She hopped to the other end of her cell, lippity, lippity like a dying frog. As she turned they saw a skull symbol tattooed onto her back, but instead of the Dark Sun of Cyric, this was the mark of Bhaal. "I was there when the mad-god came for my master, yes. Master needed Madele to tend to him. So many children. He had spent all but the tiniest sliver of his power. He was weak, so weak I had to chew his food."

She bared her gums at them and smacked them wetly together in demonstration. The old priestess would not be much good for chewing Bhaal's food anymore. She had only five teeth left that they could see and even those were rotten and black.

"This woman was present when Bhaal was slain by Cyric," marvelled Viconia. "The Dark Sun's minions must have imprisoned her years ago."

Freya crouched down, looking at the half-dead senior before her but picturing in her mind's eye the same face from years before.

_Younger. Her hair was not thin and grey but black and curly. Her eyes had been a startling green and she'd had a mouth of bright white teeth, filed into points. She had always been skinny though. Much too skinny for Bhaal's liking. She was not one of the mothers, but a caretaker. Such a tender nursemaid toward the end, when his numerous progeny were almost all born and his powers drained to less than those of a mortal human…_

"Madele," whispered Freya, stroking the blind old woman's face. The name came to her mind as though she were recognizing a long lost friend. "This used to be a temple of Bhaal and she was his priestess. Her name is Madele… Why do I know that?"

At the unfamiliar brush of another person's hand, Madele grasped the bars of the cage in distress. She gripped them so hard that her knuckles turned white and they shuddered back and forth. The bars would not break though. Even Freya could not snap them. They seemed to have been intentionally designed to wobble, to give the illusion that they were close to breaking, just to torment the captive.

"Faithful!" wailed Madele. "Though my name has withered to dust through the endless night, still may I be called faithful! Lone travellers wandered too close, fell into our nets and we cut out their hearts. Blood ran down my arms and I felt the Lord of Murder's blessing."

"Why would you worship a god of murder?" Rasaad cried, recoiling from the cage in revulsion.

"We waste time with this creature!" Viconia told Freya harshly. "Put her out of her misery if you like, but for Shar's sake let us move on!"

"SILENCE!" thundered Freya. Her voice boomed through the temple, so powerful that it seemed to the party as though the walls were shaking. That was bound to attract the attention of the cult. Any hope of a sleek, discrete operation to retrieve the wardstone was shattered. "Madele was loyal to me all these years! Through everything!"

"Bhaal, Freya," Rasaad spoke carefully. He was frowning at his leader with a troubled expression. They all were. "She was loyal to Bhaal."

"Yes…" said Freya. She raised her hand to her head which was throbbing uncomfortably. "Yes."

"The reign of Bhaal is long past," said Corwin uneasily. "He's dead. Freya, we should get the wardstone to get into Bridgefort and get out of here. I don't think this place agrees with you."

"No," agreed Freya. "The temple under Baldur's Gate where I killed Sarevok didn't either, but this place is worse. I feel weird." In fact she felt at home. Like this was her own domain, a place she belonged. She said, as much to remind herself as the others; "Bhaal is gone."

"A new age of Bhaal will be upon us and soon." Madele contradicted her. "It would be upon us already had the others not interfered. The cursed servants of the Dark Sun violated our temples, and before that, the Harpers stole our children."

"You were slaying your children as I recall," replied Viconia. There was a definite frosty edge to her voice. She had once been called upon to sacrifice a baby herself and her inability to do it had been the cause of her exile and all her problems since. "They cannot have been any great loss to you."

"We were serving the droplets by making them fall!" cried Madele insanely. "We were returning them to the lake!"

Shadows were flickering on the edges of Freya's vision. Brief outlines of people stepping in and out of the branching corridors, watching, listening and weighing up when to strike. Freya's roaring voice had alerted the cultists to their presence and now they were gathering.

"I am one of Bhaal's children," announced Freya. She wanted to speak with the blind priestess, to understand the memories she had of this place and what had happened when she attacked the first cultist. These assassins could wait.

"And he took you," whispered Madele. "A priestess and a Harper spy meeting in shadows, hiding their passion. But we saw. She could not hide her belly as their brat grew. Her Imoen would have made a fine priestess, she showed all the signs of her mother's power. Alianna was so proud of her whelp. But in the end, we let him take her so that he and his Harper friends would GO AWAY!"

"But Gorion didn't go away did he?" retorted Freya proudly, suddenly feeling less like Bhaal and more like herself. "Dad came back for us!" Then she added, in response to her party who were trying to draw her attention to the approaching cultists; "Firebomb the corridors if the little sods can't wait their turn!"

"Gorion? Come back _for you_? No, no, no," Madele cackled. "When little Imoen died he led the Harpers to steal our children but then what did he do? Mutilated the master's divine soul! Took a portion of each of you to make her a new soul. Oh, he is fortunate that he died before our Lord of Murder's revival, out of the reach of his retribution. His punishment would have been dire indeed!"

"I know what Dad did," said Freya in a stiffly defensive voice. "But he loved us. He would have saved us and raised us anyway, regardless of Imoen."

Suddenly they were bathed in blindingly bright light as Edwin and Baeloth each sent fireballs hurtling down the hallways. Corwin unleashed an arrow of detonation, partially collapsing one of the tunnels. Poor blind Madele could see none of this but she could hear the roar of the flames and the shrieks. She could feel the heat on her withered cheeks and smell the smoke. She cackled delightedly, and stroked Freya's thick, soft hair with undisguised affection.

"Then what about Sarevok?" Madele asked slyly, pressing her lips to the bars, as close to Freya as possible.

"What about him?" Freya replied warily.

"Sarevok was Alianna's son," Madele revealed in her creepy sing-song voice. "The son of the priestess he loved didn't get his soul shaved like the rest of you. Oh no! _He_ was sent to be raised by a noble family. Gorion intended a life of wealth and comfort for Imoen's brother. But our agents got to him before this temple fell and set him on the right path."

"What 'right path?'" asked Rasaad.

"Why, to continue our work by destroying as many of his siblings as possible!" cried Madele, as though this were obvious.

Footsteps were approaching. The charred corpses of the acolytes lay smouldering on the ground. But a cult guarded by a dragon had to have more challenging opponents to offer. Freya got to her feet sharply and drew her swords, much to the relief of her companions.

"I will find the key and free you Madele," she promised. "Hang in there."

The cultists came sprinting through one of the burned out corridors. This helped rather than hampered the party since the Cyricists formed a trail of human breadcrumbs, leading them into the heart of the compound.

"Are you alright Freya?" Rasaad asked, his face creased in concern. "You have been behaving very strangely since we came to this temple."

Freya was spared from having to answer by Edwin opening a bad door. He peered inside and let out a feeble wail. It seemed that the cult liked to keep pets. A colossal violet worm burst through the mosaiced floor. It flailed its facial tentacles at Freya from a dizzying height, reaching almost to the top of the cavern.

"Woah!" grinned Freya, her grey eyes lighting up. "Now this is more like it!"

"The demented pooch is back to normal!" cried Edwin in mock-celebration. "How did it come to this? Following a lunatic down the gullet of a colossal earthworm."

"First we battle that beast of a beetle and now this bogging burrowing behemoth!" Baeloth agreed. "Is our bigwig boss hell-bent on seeing us beaten by bugs?"

"Come on comrades, let's clear this coterie of Cyric converts and crazies," boomed Freya in a taunting but accurate imitation of Baeloth.

"No!" snapped Corwin, slamming the door in the disappointed werewolf's face. "We are here to find the wardstone and that is all. I am not battling anything else with you today that hasn't got a spine!"

They hacked and slashed their way through legions of cultists until they reached a large room in the compound. One entire wall was blanketed by an aging tapestry of a dragon in its death throws. On another the bricked wall had been removed to reveal the natural cave rock. Into it someone had started to carve a new statue of Cyric. It was clearly a work in progress. A chisel and a pile of chipped rock fragments lay at his protruding stone sandals. In its half-completed form it looked as though the mad-god was emerging, laughing, from the rockface itself.

Yet whatever the original purpose of the alcove had been, and whatever future purpose the artist had in mind for it, it was clear that its current function was to be a sparsely furnished office.

Unimpressive though the office itself was, the administrator occupying it was another matter. The winged humanoid clearly had some draconic ancestry. She had a lipless fanged snout, green crocodile-like skin and a flicking forked tongue. Her broad torso was crammed into a suit of ill-fitting human armour, though this was largely redundant due to the thickness of her hide. Cyric's symbol was beat into the metal, and she wielded a fat meat-cleaver of a blade.

"A half-kobold? Huh," said Freya cocking her head to one side. "Vampires can reform, goblins talk and humans and kobolds can breed. This whole trip has been a proper biology lesson."

"My name is Ziatar, sister of the dragon upstairs and priestess of Cyric!" the part-dragon rumbled softly, "And you will regret calling me a kobold when you are watching your innards slithering away down my master's altar. Guards! Defend me!"

Freya gathered her party next to the door, in the shadow of Cyric's statue, as Zieltar's elite guard came running to defend their mistress. As the last of them crossed the threshold, looking around wildly for the intruders, Freya shoved her people out of the room behind them. She stood between them and the cultists blocking the way out and cried; "Edwin! Baeloth! Fumigate the room!"

Spiderwebs coated the floor, binding the cultists' feet like steel manacles. This was followed by an eruption of brown and yellow clouds. The stench was unbearable and as they breathed it in, the Cyricists began to choke. Freya planted her boot squarely on the nearest cultist's chest, sending him tumbling back into the toxic fumes and slammed the door, trapping them inside.

They waited, watching tendrils of poison eking out from under the door crack. When the air cleared and they opened the door, all of their enemies were spread-eagled on the floor unconscious. Edwin sent a fireball tumbling into the room for good measure. The flames roasted the furniture and burned up the tapestry with a choking smell of burning dust. Only Ziatar herself survived, slumped at the feet of the statue of Cyric. Corwin took advantage of her unconscious state to shoot an acid arrow at point-blank range through her reptilian jaws.

There was little to plunder from the room. The office had mainly contained flammable documents. Only the key to Madele's cage had survived the inferno. They were about to leave when the dragon tapestry smouldering away revealed a mural underneath. Freya brushed the ashes from it, frowning. It was a montage carved into the wall. It showed hundreds of tear-like droplets falling from the sky to fill a great lake, and the avatar of the Lord of Murder rising out of it.

"The lake becomes the droplets…" Freya squinted at it, remembering Sarevok's strange words in her dream. "And the droplets become the lake."

"Cyric's mouth opens!" Viconia pointed out. "Look!"

She reached her arm between the statue's laughing teeth and drew out handfuls of what appeared to be Ziatar's horde. It was smaller than that of her true-dragon sister but contained at least a thousand gold pieces, an opal tiara and some sizable pearls. The sword in Cyric's scabbard could be pulled out, and they handed it to Rasaad to hold. By far the most important find in the sparkling collection was a palm-sized granite pebble engraved with glowing blue runes.

"The wardstone!" cried Corwin. "Good! Let's get out of here before that sleeping dragon finishes her siesta."

Slow, deliberate footsteps clicked daintily into the room behind them. They turned around slowly. A tall necromancer in a skull mask (Freya was pretty sure that it was fashioned from a real skull) slipped into the room. Her robes were a sinister, sickly purple and formed tendrils at the bottom like the flames of the Dark Sun. She extended both hands before her and there was a sudden chill, as though all the heat and energy were being sucked from the room.

A dark, organic energy bubbled between her palms and the party's wizards. The cultist threw her head back with a shudder of pleasure, as she drew their life force into herself. As her spell completed and she lowered her palms, both Edwin and Baeloth collapsed, dead.

Freya and Rasaad charged her. The werewolf ought to have been able to take her down, but overconfidence proved her undoing. As she reached the necromancer a series of contingency spells fired at the same time, grasping the Hero in a giant invisible fist, striking her with lightning and paralyzing her. Rasaad's punches were not sufficient to break through her defensive spells. She sneered at the monk mockingly, then lifted him with a second unseen hand and hurled him into the stone wall next to Cyric.

Rasaad flopped down. He was struggling to his feet but it was obvious to Viconia that he had broken his collarbone and probably several ribs. Their archer was not moving a muscle. Cyric's high priestess had laced Corwin under a Hold Person curse and only her eyes flickered helplessly.

Cyric's servant now advanced slowly on Viconia, the last member of the party still able to fight. A magical missile flew at the drow, leaving a comet trail of glitter behind it. She dodged the first and her magic blocked the second, but the next five hit her in the chest, blasting her again and again. The drow collapsed wheezing and the Cyricist slashed her face with a dagger and kicked Viconia's already broken ribs. Cobwebs sprung from her fingers, binding Viconia. The Dark Sun leader smiled and pulled her dagger to finish the sacrifice. Memories raced through Viconia's mind of being bound to the alter of Lolth, before her brother had rescued her, and she froze in terror.

"NO!" hollered Freya but there was nothing she could do.

Viconia screwed her eyes closed as the dagger fell. There was a sickening squelch of puncturing flesh, but she felt no pain. Cautiously she opened one red eye and squeaked in terror. Rasaad had thrown his injured body between the priestess and her victim and had been rewarded with a dagger through his lung. Blood spurted from the monk's mouth and nose. The necromancer pulled her dagger from his chest, threw him aside with one of her magical hands and prepared to stab Viconia. The drow was too badly injured to attempt to defend herself. She threw her body flat on the floor, with her arm protecting her head and howled.

Suddenly there was a crunch of shattering rock, a resounding crash reverberated through the room and the floor shook.

"Woah!" breathed Freya. Then she cried more urgently. "Viconia! Healing potions, save Rasaad!"

Viconia scrambled up from the floor, with difficulty and couldn't believe her eyes. The statue of Cyric had detached itself from the wall and crushed his own priestess. The dead woman was completely covered in stone but the arm holding the dagger she had meant to use on Viconia poked out. A scarlet pool of blood was spreading out from under the mad-god's prone form.

The drow fumbled frantically through Freya's pack for the healing potions, tipping them one after another down Rasaad's neck until he stopped coughing blood. He lay on the ground wheezing heavily and moaning in pain. Only then did she take a couple of potions for herself. The foolish boy had tried to sacrifice himself to buy her a few more minutes. What a useful, loyal male he could be if only there were someone to train him properly! There was no way to revive Baeloth and Edwin without taking them back to camp, and nothing to do about the immobilized human women except wait for the spells binding them to wear off.

"What did you do?" asked Freya, awed.

"Nothing!" Viconia frowned. She looked from the fallen statue of Cyric to the place it had occupied in the wall. The image had been carved into the rock face itself. There was no conceivable way it could have simply toppled over. "My eyes were closed. What did you see?"

"It just ripped itself out of the wall!" Freya replied, flexing her fingers, trying to shake the spell. "Fuck me, I thought we'd had it that time for sure!"

"Mmmph! MMMPPH!" chipped in Corwin, but they had to wait a few minutes for her to regain control of her body to understand what she was trying to say. "Look at his back! Look at the statue's back!"

They looked at it. It was just robes, hair and bare legs. It could have been the back of any number of statues. At first glance there was nothing peculiar about it, until they remembered. The statue was half carved out of the cave wall. The back had not been chiselled out yet. It should be a lump of amorphous rock, not a rear with more lifelike carving than the front.

"Ok, that's weird," admitted Freya. "But at least we're alive!" She glanced at Edwin and Baeloth. "Well most of us are anyway. Best get these two stiffs back to camp and bring them back."

"Are you sure you want to bother?" asked Corwin. Freya considered this.

"Eh, they found Irenicus's tracking wardstone," she shrugged. "Probably be as well to keep them around."

On the way back they came to Madele's cage. Freya pulled the key out and unlocked it.

"There," she panted. "You're free."

"I'll never be free!" wept Madele. "I am bound to the Lord of Murder! He guides me even when he is silent… so silent." Her voice rose to a hysterical, pleading scream. "I am here! I do as you will!"

"Madele, you have proven your devotion and earned your place in Bhaal's realm a thousand times over," Freya comforted her. "Leave this place and live out your life as you see fit. You don't need to sacrifice anymore."

"That goes against everything my lord taught me," Madele whispered. Sadly or hopefully, the party could not tell. Then a deep frown line appeared between her eyes. "Everything is going to be different now isn't it?"

"Yes it is," whispered Freya, holding her close. "Try to find something to care for if you can. You cared for Bhaal as he was dying, and in spite of everything you never abandoned him. Keep faith a little longer. Wait in the Fugue Plane. Heed no offers from demons or other gods. You shall hold an honoured place in Bhaal's domain."

"You can't promise that!" croaked Rasaad, who despite the healing potions was still badly beaten up and thoroughly spooked.

"Oh, but she can," Madele whispered in a croak. "The lake has become the droplets, but as the rains fall the droplets will reform the lake. Thank you Master. Thank you."

"Lake… droplets… that's exactly what Sarevok said!" Freya yelped, shaking her. "What does it mean?"

"When the time of troubles came to an end we tried to make the rains fall faster," Madele whispered. "Rains of blood, and so many droplets we made fall over our alters, but it wasn't enough. They intervened; cowards, traitors! All with their own selfish reasons. Some smuggled you out, others murdered your mothers and took you. Too many of you survived. You cannot reform, Master, not yet. But I will wait," she promised. "I will wait."

By the time the party limped back to the surface, mercifully leaving the snoring dragon undisturbed, they were too fatigued to attempt returning to camp. They tied up Edwin and Baeloth in their bedrolls to prevent their carcasses from being dragged off by wild animals. Corwin and Freya, who were less hurt than the other two, prepared a small meal and laid out their bedrolls. Viconia frowned deeply into the fire, lost in troubled thoughts.

"He will be alright," Rasaad reassured her. Viconia looked up questioningly. "Baeloth. Please do not be distressed. They will be able to revive him, I am sure. The spell drained his life energy but his body is entirely untouched."

"I don't care about them!" snapped the drow impatiently. Though perhaps it would be closer to the truth to say that she didn't care _much_. She was fond of Baeloth, despite his attempt to sacrifice her to the Spider Queen, and she had been quite distraught when the priestess stabbed Rasaad. Though her overriding fear for her own survival had enabled her to mask it. "I was thinking about that Cyric statue."

"That was very strange," admitted Rasaad. "There must be a rational explanation, but I am struggling to see what it could be."

Viconia looked into the monk's calm, reassuring face. Her eyes traced him, appreciating more than just his physique. She felt safer in his presence somehow. Then there was Freya, who was sitting beside him. What the Hero lacked in brains she made up for in sheer power and force of personality. A leader even a drow could respect. Trust was a weakness, and weakness was death. She had set her heart against ever trusting anybody again so why, of all people, was she finding herself letting her guard down in the presence of a pair of Selunites?

"There is something else…" began Viconia. As a Sharran she revelled in secrets and was reticent to tell hers. Yet Lolth's personal intervention to stop Baeloth from sacrificing her had her completely confounded. These two worshippers of her goddess's enemy both had extensive education in religious matters. Perhaps they could offer some useful insight, so she told them about her visit from the Spider Queen.

"Shar saved you, Lolth saved you, Cyric saved you," Corwin listed. Her disdainful tone made it very clear that she did not consider being rescued by such entities to be a good thing. "You're a popular little elf."

"Ha! Maybe you're this 'Servant of all Faiths!'" teased Freya. Then she actually thought about it, and her expression changed. She was looking at Viconia aghast, as though she were really seeing her for the first time. The werewolf leaned forward and said seriously; "Holy crap. I reckon you are!"

"If you are going to mock me..." Viconia spat impatiently.

"I'm not!" Freya replied emphatically. "The Spider Queen descended from her celestial cobweb to personally spare one of her enemies. How often does that happen?"

"Never," replied Viconia slowly. "She would not even do so for her most prized servants in the normal scheme of things. When her favourites die, whoever slew them becomes the new favourite. Lolth values strength in her followers and detests weakness."

"So does Shar. And yet she called you to her priesthood when you fled to the surface as a weak helpless exile. Why?" Freya pressed.

"I always assumed that she had done something particularly terrible even by drow standards," said Rasaad darkly. "And that the Nightwhisperer had claimed her for her own."

"Thank you!" beamed Viconia, sincerely flattered. Then she frowned. "But no. That is not what happened. I had worshipped the Spider Queen for an age and a half, far longer than all three of your ages combined. I had sacrificed many to her insatiable rage; drow and surfacer alike. Yet there came a time when my faith in Lolth was no more."

"Couldn't have come to that conclusion before you murdered all those people, could you?" sneered Corwin.

"I lapsed when a child… a baby… was to die. It would not have made Lolth stronger or more influential or a greater deity. I lost my will that day." Viconia paused and took a deep breath. "One of the lesser priestesses, eager to usurp my position in Lolth's favour, sensed my hesitation and sacrificed the little one herself."

"One split second of doubt and she destroyed your whole family?" Freya raised an eyebrow. "Damn. No wonder Baeloth was shitting bricks when she turned up in your tent."

"There was a little more to it than that," said Viconia coldly. "True, the incident threw our house into disfavour and left us vulnerable but I had an opportunity to prostrate myself before the Spider Queen and redeem myself as a drow. But I refused. I was disgusted with my queen so I cursed my mother and endangered our house. I naively thought that I would survive my actions."

"Why would you think that?" asked Corwin, bemused. "Even we mere-surfacers know of Lolth's intolerance of insubordination. She does not even permit the acknowledgement of other drow gods."

"I thought it because…" Viconia hesitated, then admitted. "Because I had been saved by divine intervention before. Things like that Cyric statue falling and crushing the priestess have happened to me many times over the years. In my arrogance I imagined myself blessed, favoured by multiple deities. Chosen."

"Because you are!" insisted Freya. "Bugger me with a ram's horn! Hey, Captain, we've got the Chosen One in our party. Can't you just picture Caelar's face when she finds out about this?"

"You can't tell people!" Corwin and Viconia cried in unison. Freya looked quite put out.

"Why the hells not?"

"Well for starters Freya, nobody is going to believe you," said Corwin. "I'm not sure I do actually, and for seconds in the minds of the soldiers there are two candidates for the Servant of All Faiths: Caelar and you. The instant you start going around telling people that you're _not_ the chosen one you give the crusade a huge boost."

"The Flaming Fist harpy speaks true. I am drow," said Viconia wryly. "The rivvil will not follow me whether I am the Servant of all Faiths or not."

"Which you obviously are," cut in Freya. "Shar rescued you and granted you use of her powers after you spared a baby. You made yourself weak by sparing the life of someone even weaker. Sorry Viccy, but that doesn't make you classic Sharran material."

"It is... strange." Viconia admitted stiffly. "I have often wondered about that. But I was not about to reject survival so freely offered. I did not worry too much about the why."

"I am sorry for misjudging you," Rasaad said quietly. "I had always believed that you had done something in the Underdark too terrible even for the drow. Had I known of your compassion and mercy-"

"Do not insult me male!" Viconia hissed at him. "If you think me weak now, I will gladly correct you!"

"But all of the gods we have mentioned so far are evil," Rasaad continued his sentence. He had long since learned to brush aside her threats and insults. "The Servant of all Faiths is supposed to be chosen by… well… all faiths."

Viconia and Corwin turned to Freya as if to say; 'see?'

"Ok," reasoned Freya, chewing on a long stalk of grass thoughtfully. "How many servants of good and neutral gods have tried to kill you since you came here? Priests, paladins, warriors?"

"Numbers beyond count," the drow replied bitterly.

She picked up a stone and tossed it at their campfire bad temperedly, making pretty red sparks fly out. They reflected and danced in her ruby eyes as she glared at them.

"Aha!" grinned Freya triumphantly. "And how many succeeded?"

"You make an interesting point," replied Viconia. "But I would prefer not to trust to divine intervention."

"And you won't have to!" Freya assured her bracingly. She flipped out her right-hand sword and held her hilt to Viconia. "I shall protect you Chosen One. I swear it on my honour."

"You don't have any honour," observed Corwin acidly.

"Alright," conceded Freya. "But I swear it just the same. She's the servant of all gods, and that includes mine, Selune. Maybe if I protect her that'll compensate for all the church rules I've broken or intend to break."

Rasaad winced at this brazen statement but Viconia smirked and raised a thin silvery eyebrow.

"Would you be so quick to swear me your allegiance if I were a man?" she enquired teasingly.

"Nope," said Freya, winking unapologetically. "But take survival when it is so freely offered. Don't worry about the why."

They sat around the fire in thoughtful silence for a while, trying not to look at Edwin and Baeloth in their body-bags. Somebody would have to sleep with the dead wizards in their tent tonight to prevent them from being dragged away by forest beasts. Each of the surviving party were hoping that if they did not mention it, it wouldn't be them.

Finally Rasaad remembered the sword that they had taken from the statue of Cyric and handed it around the group for inspection. It would normally fall to Baeloth or Edwin to identify an artefact like this, but in this case, the mages were not needed. Their leader recognized the blade the instant she got a proper look at it. Despite the sorry state that the party was in, their prize seemed to delight her.

"Do you know what this is?" Freya cried excitedly.

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me," sighed Corwin.

"This is his sword! Sarevok's actual sword!" the werewolf grinned, her eyes sparkling. She leapt to her feet and gave it a wild swing, bouncing on the balls of her feet like an over-excited puppy. "I was too wolf-crazy to pick it up in the temple after I took him down, and by the time anyone came back for it, the thing had been stolen. Those fucking Cyricists must have made off with it. Ha!"

"What good is Sarevok's sword to you? You dual wield," snapped Corwin. "What are you going to do with a broadsword?"

"Carry it! Use it!" grinned Freya. "Chop wood with it for the campfire! Trust me Sarevok is watching this from the afterlife and _fuming._ I have the bastard's sword. That's better than cuckolding him. Ha ha! Oh wait- I know exactly what I'm going to do with it."

"Marching and drills for a while at least," cut in Corwin. "With the crusader's badges someone should be able to get past the blockade and use the wardstone to access Bridgefort, but it can't be us. We'll have to send Arowan."

"Why?" frowned Freya, slightly insulted.

"Because we'll be recognized from a mile away, badges or no badges! I am the Captain of the Flaming Fist, we have a pair of drow with us and you attract attention like a lighthouse attracts moths!" groaned Corwin. "There is no way that this party is sneaking into the crusader camp unnoticed."

"Fine, send Arrow. But we've got better things to do than drills. We need to send word to Baldur's Gate and get Coran up here sharpish," Freya insisted, "Because I know what we're going to do while we're waiting!"

"What is that?" the monk asked apprehensively. He did not want to see Coran again. Not while he was still trying to work out where he and Arrow stood. Freya winked conspiratorially and draped one arm over his shoulder and the other over Viconia's.

"You, me, Coran… and Corwin if you're up for it," the Hero grinned, in a tone that suggested she was about to announce the holiday of a lifetime, "Are going to slay that fucking dragon!"


	22. Dorn Il-Khan

"Viconia?" Rasaad panted, carefully laying Baeloth's stiffening corpse against the trunk of a great oak tree. "May I have a word?"

"Are we having a break? Praise Selune!" called Freya, from a few trees ahead. She dropped Edwin like a crateful of canon balls. The wizard landed face down in the dirt, his mouth lolling open and decaying leaves sticking to his tongue. His tired carrier slumped down heavily by the side of the road, unscrewing her hip flask as she did so. Corwin marched over to her, taking care to tread on Edwin as she went. The two Fist officers tolerated the Red Wizard but it was clear that neither of them liked or respected him much.

"I feel I owe you an apology," Rasaad told Viconia quietly. "For having thought so ill of you all this time. May I ask, what would you have done if the other priestess had not killed that baby?"

Viconia had never given this question much thought. The infant was condemned from the moment it had been taken into the Underdark. Even had it been allowed to live as a slave, she told him, its life would have been brutal, abusive and short. The best thing to do with children in Menzoberranzan was not to bring them into it in the first place. For some reason a bitter expression crossed her face as she said this.

"Had I been on the surface at the time perhaps I might have attempted to raise the child myself," she mused. Then, remembering that she had to appear strong she added; "It would have come in useful to have a young rivvil in my service. He could have served as my ambassador to his own kind."

She tried not to think about the tiny, frightened, doomed little person on Lolth's altar. Or the way that every instinct in her body had screamed at her to pick him up, cuddle him and feel the soft warm weight of a baby of her own. That was not how mother-child relationships worked in her culture. You had to be willing to slay your offspring, boys especially, over the most trivial of offences to the Spider Queen. Just as her own mother had tried to do to her. Or failing that, watch the babies grow up to slaughter each other for power, as she and her sisters had done. She eyed the monk enviously. He could have what she could not and yet had chosen a life of celibacy.

"Have you ever considered having children of your own?" she asked him. The monk flushed, seeming rather thrown by the question. Yet he had probed into her personal life and it was only fair to allow her to reciprocate.

"Yes. Often," he replied. "Especially since I lost Gamaz. All my relatives are dead now. Having children of my own is the only way I could ever have another family. Yet fatherhood is not readily compatible with the life of a monk. I have waivered too long on this subject and caused pain to others by doing so."

By 'others,' it was obvious that he meant Arowan, but Viconia wondered. The ranger was naturally inclined to be asocial. She had never seen her happier than on those occasions when she had been preparing to go wandering in the woods, alone. Rather like Jaheira. The rivvil female adored Rasaad, that much was painfully obvious, but she had never seen the other woman show the slightest flicker of interest in children.

"You are certain that Arrow would want a family?" Viconia sounded curiously unconvinced. "Your lone ranger has never struck me as the maternal type. Perhaps you should ask her before you commit too far, or you might find yourself stuck in the same predicament as Khalid."

"Do you plan on having children?" Rasaad asked, to deflect her from the subject of the ranger. Somehow, he felt that Arrow would not appreciate him talking about her with Viconia. The two women made no secret of their mutual loathing.

"I do not," said Viconia. "Just because one wants something, does not necessarily mean that it is a good idea. Any child of mine would be persecuted and hounded just as I have been."

This confused Rasaad. If memory served Viconia had been married – four times – before she fled Menzoberranzan. The drow would have had ample opportunity to raise her sons and daughters in the Underdark, but the monk thought it indelicate to enquire further. Perhaps there was some medical reason that she could not have children.

"I lost a brother too you know," Viconia volunteered after a while. "Valas saved me when our house fell. They turned him into a drider as punishment. Do you know what a drider is? A half-spider abomination of hatred and instinct. He is still there now in all likelihood, raging and suffering, the person who was my brother annihilated."

"I am sorry," said Rasaad quietly. "If there is anything that I can do?"

"Do? What could you possibly do?" Viconia snapped, turning on him without warning like an angry bear. "Save your feeble rivvil sympathy for Arowan, I do not appreciate your coddling!"

Rasaad sighed and shook his shaven head. There was no point in talking to Viconia once she got into one of these moods. He hoisted up Baeloth onto his shoulder. The deceased drow hung limply over his back, his silvery hair covering his face. As they walked past Freya and Corwin, the werewolf groaned reluctantly, and made to lift Edwin up.

"Why not attach those chains of yours to his ankles?" suggested Corwin helpfully. "That way you could drag him."

Freya knew a good idea when she heard it. She took the heavy dwarf forged manacles that she kept for full moon out of her pack and clipped them around Edwin's feet. Then lifting the other end, she hauled him across the forest floor. By the time they got back to camp the Thayan's body, which had been in perfect condition when they left the temple, was torn up all down his back from being dragged along the rough brambly ground.

This in itself could be easily fixed after the resurrection rituals had been performed. More problematic for the Red Wizard was the resulting state of his robes which were torn to ribbons, and his shredded cloak.

"Imbeciles!" Edwin thundered, neglecting to thank the clerics who had revived him as he stared at his ruined clothes in horror. "Ruffians! Swine!"

Corwin and Freya made no attempt to disguise their laughter. With their arms slung around each other's shoulders, the pair of them were propping each other up as they cracked up at him. The fact that they were starting to get on better pleased almost nobody except each other. Skie and Safana, whose personal lives Corwin was always ready to disparage, watched on with narrowed eyes. Bence was looking sulky.

"How have I so offended the gods as to be cursed with you useless oafs?" cried Edwin, getting to his feet. The room span around him and he immediately sat back down again, groaning.

"Steady there," Glint advised him. "You're going to need at least a day to sleep that off. Maybe two."

"And leave the monkeys to run the zoo?" Edwin muttered. "Conserve your strength Odesseiron. Save it for the witch."

The Red Wizard lay back down, with many theatrical grunts of pain. He spent the next few hours loudly bemoaning his misfortunes and demanding that Mizhena wait on him hand and foot, until an equally fatigued Baeloth decided he'd had enough and cast a discrete sleeping spell on him.

"Thank you!" mouthed Mizhena. Baeloth smiled graciously.

"You ready to go?" Corwin asked the adventurers gathered at the edge of camp.

"We are," replied Jaheira haughtily. Corwin had actually been asking Arrow, but since reuniting with her ward the druid had retaken her role as leader of the group. This was much to the ranger's relief and to the unfettered delight of Minsc. The Rashemen had only met Jaheira once before but he had been most favourably impressed. Freya's leadership had often led the party into morally ambiguous territory, which did not suit the berserker's delicate sensibilities. Following Arrow had been better in that sense, but also disappointingly low on butt-kicking opportunities. Jaheira was a leader more to his liking.

"Now don't hang around talking to the crusaders. Get past their camp as quickly as you can and make contact with the defenders." Captain Corwin instructed them hastily, handing Arrow the crusader badges. "We need to find out what their situation is and whether we can co-ordinate a counter attack."

"I am perfectly well aware of the situation in Bridgefort," Jaheira told her loftily. "And the need for discretion around the crusaders."

"Good luck then," said Corwin stiffly. "Caelar's servants may take back Bridgefort but I'm not inclined to let them have it without a fight."

The prospect of subterfuge made Arrow rather anxious. She did not have Freya's charisma to pull it off, nor the strength to fight her way out should things go awry. Still, it was her adopted father, Khalid, who was trapped in Bridgefort and she was certainly ready to risk her life for him. Despite the danger her disposition was as sunny as the weather. Being reunited with Jaheira again made her feel, for the first time in a long time, as though she belonged in her party.

She was in a good mood when she left the camp, and as a result raised no objection when Rasaad asked to accompany them. She swung her bow at her side as she walked, humming along to the birdsong with a faint smile on her face, obviously happy to be out of the confines of the camp. Jaheira also allowed Rasaad to come though she did not seem keen. The monk was not entirely sure what her issue was, though he suspected that it had to do with his on-off romance with Arrow. At first the druid had seemed to approve of his friendship with her ward, but with time and his repeatedly breaking things off, Jaheira's warmth had waned.

Rasaad, for his own part, was hoping for an excuse to avoid Coran. He had been trying to put the elf's fling with Arrow out of his mind, but he was finding it hard to. Or rather, he found himself constantly comparing himself unfavourably to him. Coran was more fun to be around. He was a skilled and practised lover, whereas the sum total of Rasaad's experience was kissing three women, none of whom had come back for seconds.

This was not wholly his fault. He and Sixscar had been caught by the other monks and the guilty teenagers thoroughly reprimanded. They had both agreed that it must never happen again, and it never did. He had kissed Viconia under the influence of a succubus, and she had belted him in the face the moment they regained their senses. Then there was Arrow. All this marching in the sun had triggered an explosion of fresh freckles, all over her cheeks and down her arms and neck. Rasaad started to wonder how far down her body they went, before reminding himself sternly that such thoughts were not appropriate for a man of his faith.

The closer they got to the crusader path, the more crusaders they passed on the way, but with the badges nobody stopped them. Jaheira's confidence and imperial bearing gave her the appearance of being where she was supposed to be. Arrow doubted she could have pulled it off half so easily. As they emerged from the trees at the top of a hill they saw Bridgefort away in the distance. It was a modest stone structure, far smaller than Candlekeep or even the Ducal Palace, surrounded by a small moat. Arrow had no experience of war, but it didn't take a military expert to compare the number of crusaders with the size of the fort and realise that the defenders were in serious trouble.

Jaheira surveyed the scene but there was no way to the teleportation circle other than through the camp. As they followed the druid down the hill, Minsc moved closer to his witch, sword hand twitching to defend her from any attack. Dynaheir smiled at Minsc in fond exasperation. She could not ask for a braver, stronger defender, but against an entire army there would be little he could do to protect her. Well meaning though Arrow was, the witch could not help feeling more confident undertaking this mission under Jaheira's leadership instead.

"Arrow told me in her letters that Edwin and Viconia tried to kill you," Jaheira spoke to her in a low voice as they went. "Yet Freya has welcomed them into her party?"

"Obviously I question her judgement," replied Dynaheir. "Yet I perceive the reason behind it. People should judge Freya for her selfishness, idiocy and atrocious decision making. Instead they judge her for being a Bhaalspawn, a lycanthrope and… other reasons. She sees the way they also assume Viconia is evil and sympathises."

"Viconia _is_ evil," Jaheira said sharply.

"Thou hast the essence of it," agreed Dynaheir. "But should she not have the opportunity to be loathed for her hideous personality, and not being born drow?"

"Boo says that Freya has been taken in by the Red Wizard and his evil elf-lady friend," Minsc interjected. "But Minsc has been practising jumping and kicking with two legs at the same time, so that we might kick both their evil butts at once!"

"Halt! Who goes there? And kicking whose butts?" demanded a crusader sentry. They had nearly reached the wooden palisade surrounding the camp and the guard were marching out to meet them.

"The Bitch of Baldur's Gate's and Captain Corwin's, who else's?" Jaheira hollered back. "We have journeyed from the South to join Caelar's crusade and pay homage to the Servant of all Faiths!"

The sentry looked them up and down sceptically. They certainly did not look like Flaming Fist, nor did they match the description they had for Freya. Volunteers had flocked from all over the Sword Coast to join the crusade, so their appearance was not suspicious. Some came to the crusade in the hope of reviving lost relatives, others were entranced by Caelar and the promise of honour and glory. The ones waxing lyrical about the Servant of all Faiths were the sentry's personal least favourite. They tended to be pious and snooty and to try to do things like confiscate their grog.

"Sorry pilgrims, you're too late," she said. "We're under orders not to let anyone join until Bridgefort falls in case of Flaming Fist spies. After we take the fort's provisions we'll retreat back over the bridge and blow it up. You can take a raft over the water and join us then if you like, but not before."

"Arrow, you have the badges," whispered Rasaad. Deception was coming a little more easily to him after hanging around with Freya and Viconia. "Tell them you are already a crusader and they might let the others past too!"

Arrow shook her head. Freya might have had the charisma to pull off such a lie, but she did not.

"We also came to return these to you," Arrow told the sentry, handing her the badges. "We found the bodies of some of your men in a nearby temple of Cyric. The cult has been destroyed but it was too late to save them. We brought you their tokens."

"Oh gods," groaned the sentry. "That's Keherrem's badge, he dented it in training weeks ago. He said it blocked the blow, it was his lucky charm. He'd never be parted with it in life."

Arrow felt very glad indeed that she had not attempted to pretend the badge was her own. The dented symbol would have been recognized. It was also a warning to tread carefully. She was less likely to be detected than Freya, but unlike the Hero of Baldur's Gate she would not have a hope of fighting her way out if it came to it. She would need to cross the camp and get to the portal quickly.

"Come on in. You'll want to give that to Lieutenant Kharm," sighed the sentry. "He's the dead lad's uncle. He'll want to know what happened first-hand."

The guards stood aside and Jaheira led the group into the camp. Nobody paid them much heed. An odd bunch though they were in many places, especially Minsc with his hamster, the crusaders themselves were far more mismatched. Humans and part-elves stood shoulder to shoulder with ogrillons, kobolds and even gnolls. Caelar's charisma had swayed an astonishing variety of creatures to her cause, though it seemed she'd had less luck convincing trolls.

There were seven of them, spindly and green, locked away at the far end of the camp. The party had no difficulty navigating through it. Those of the crusaders who were not training or maintaining the camp were preoccupied by the fort itself. Their archers were loosing arrows over the battlements, though they were shooting blind, for the defenders were nowhere in sight. They made their presence felt though by every so often firing one of the crusader arrows back the way it had come. Since the crusader ranks were thick and the Bridgefort defenders sparse, their arrows were striking a target with much greater frequency.

"This way," muttered Jaheira, with an anxious look at the fort where her husband was trapped. Arrow kept looking at the trolls as she passed them, feeling sorry for the creatures. Their long, strong fingers reached through the gaps in the cages, making grabbing motions.

"Let us out! Free us human!" they beseeched her, rattling the bars of their cages.

"I can't!" she whispered guiltily.

"Use key in chest!" demanded one troll. "Open cages. Open!"

"You are no crusaders!" came a low voice from the cages. A half-orc whom they had not noticed owing to him lying on his side asleep, sprung up and wrenched angrily at the bars of his cage. His black eyes swept the party and he grimaced at them toothily. "My sword is in that chest. Return it to me and I will aid you."

"Sword?" Minsc beamed. He threw open the chest that the troll had indicated and inside found a hulking suit of black armour, rancid boots and some healing potions. Finally the berserkers messy rummaging yielded the sword the half-orc spoke of. Arrow dipped into the chest after him to retrieve the key, as Minsc murmured, "Ah, a scary rune blade… oh… I do not like this…"

It was a wide, heavy blade with a serrated edge designed to tear and rend flesh. The metal had been coated in ebony black to disguise it from glinting in the light. It was covered all over in strange runes that they could not decipher, but clearly it was magical in nature. Minsc's lip was wobbling and his hands trembled as he held the blade.

"Minsc is not powerful enough to protect his witch!" wailed Minsc suddenly and very loudly. He was in danger of attracting attention and Rasaad snatched the sword from him. Immediately he felt overcome with feelings of guilt and anxiety, though unlike Minsc, he kept his feelings to himself.

" _Coran is coming back and he'll make Arrow fall in love with him and I deserve it because I hurt her,"_ he thought, his face contorting with misery.

Reading the pain in his expression, Arrow instinctively reached forward and took the blade herself. The Ilmatari walked around in a state of perpetual guilt and anxiety anyway, so holding the blade did not affect her as badly as the others. As she gazed into the runes, she was struck by a powerful feeling that something or someone was looking back.

_My, my… who do we have here? It has been a long time… You are much diminished Lord of Murder… Or is it lady now?_

"Human!" screeched the trolls impatiently. Arrow jumped and snapped out of her trance. "Let us out! Out, out, out!"

"Ignore the trolls," the half-orc spoke in a deep, considered rumble. "You are nothing but meat to them. I, however, have more to offer. If you release me."

"You are the owner of this sword?" Arrow asked. It was as much an accusation as a question. The half-orc nodded grimly, his lip curling. She held it up to him and said; "It spoke to me. I didn't much like what it was saying."

"That would be my patron, Ur-Gothoz," he growled with interest. "You should be flattered that he would speak to you. Not many are found worthy of his personal attention."

"Who are you?" asked Arrow, "And how did you come to be a prisoner of the crusade?"

"I am Dorn Il-Khan!" he declared proudly. "I was captured while attempting to slay the Reverend Brother Hormorn, priest of Caelar."

"Caelar is no goddess, she has no priests!" scoffed Dynaheir. "Why wouldst thou seek his death?"

"That is a very complex matter," Dorn replied in a low, careful voice. "I do the bidding of Ur-Gothoz. 'Twas he who demanded the death of Hormorn. I failed him. Though as it transpires, it matters not."

"Why not?" asked Arrow, with a faint frown. The sword was making her feel lightheaded and disturbed. She passed it through the bars to its owner, more to get rid of it than anything else. His hand tightened around her own and a flurry of images flashed through her mind.

_A great underground city with spiked architecture and rounded buildings all burning. The flames leapt orange and red to the height of the caverns. Scattered around their feet were charred, blackened bodies. Wailing children could be heard in the distance, a few surviving drow were gathering them and fleeing the settlement. In the middle of it all stood a human cleric, a handsome but hysterical man, tearing his short beard, weeping and laughing in maniacal despair._

Arrow dropped the sword in horror and the half-orc tugged it back possessively. The vision left her tummy feeling cold and clammy, like she had swallowed a wet sock. Dorn's eyes were watching her with interest, but if he had seen the sobbing cleric too, he did not admit to it.

"Hormorn's blasphemous prayers to the 'Servant of all gods' echoed into the hells," replied Dorn. "My master heeded it and tasked me with destroying him. But the priest damns himself for nothing. The woman he prays to is not the one."

"Then Caelar is not this Servant of all Faiths?" demanded Dynaheir quickly. "Thou knowest this for a fact?"

"Indeed," said Dorn. "It is impossible. Caelar clearly possesses divine heritage, whereas She who Serves all Faiths will be a common mortal."

"Then 'tis not Freya either," Dynaheir raised an eyebrow. "Both sides have it wrong."

"In any case Hormorn wastes his breath with his obsequious petitions," Dorn remarked sullenly. "The Servant of all Faiths is just that, a servant. Not a deity in her own right, deserving of prayers."

"Then who is she?" asked Arrow, curiously.

"My patron has not deigned to share that information with me," growled Dorn, "And I am not so fool as to question him."

"So thine master dost not know?" smirked Dynaheir. Dorn did not reply but an annoyed tic in the half-orc's face confirmed to her that she had the truth.

"Let us out now! Out! OUT!" squealed the trolls.

"Silence vermin!" Dorn thundered, irritated. "Sentient creatures are talking. Release me girl. I have heard the crusaders speak of you, and my master saw you when you held my blade. I know who else marches with the Flaming Fist. Your sister is a powerful rival. You are weak, you need me."

"Wait, are you asking to join my party?" Arrow almost laughed.

"Consider this!" growled Dorn. "The Hero of Baldur's Gate slew one of your brothers and tried to have the other hanged. You are entirely at her mercy with no means to defend yourself. One of these days she will slaughter you like the helpless kitten you are!"

"And the chivalrous owner of the clearly-evil blade wants to nobly protect me?" Arrow asked sarcastically. "How generous."

"No. Even better. My demonic patron wishes to protect you," promised Dorn. "And if you take me with you from this place, I will start teaching you how to better protect yourself. You will never be the wolf's equal in strength or skill, little lamb, but that does not mean that you need walk meekly into her jaws."

Arrow looked at the half-orc appraisingly. She was dimly aware that her four companions were unanimously declining Dorn's offer. The voice in the blade and the vision of the burning city had shaken her and yet, there was no denying that this demon-serving blackguard had a point. As things stood she was utterly at her sister's mercy. The woman who had sliced off the head of Yoshimo's sister without a second thought. Who had ordered the Flaming Fist to hang Eric the instant he stepped onto the docks of Baldur's Gate. Who had not only slain Sarevok in her werewolf form, but had attempted to eat him afterwards.

This man was huge, a towering hulk of solid muscle. His dark, unkempt mane fell in a tangle around his shoulders and though she would never say so in front of Rasaad, Arrow liked long-haired men. He had a fierce, warrior's stance and the sword hummed with power now that it was back in his large hands. He looked stronger even than Sarevok.

_Freya isn't indestructible!_ Arrow thought. _Irenicus can beat her and so could that cleric in the temple of Cyric. So there are people who can stand up to her. This man might be one of them. And he's offering to fight for me._

It was an impulsive, split-second decision, one that she would spend many a sleepless night questioning the wisdom of later. She thrust the key into the lock, turned it and threw open the door.

"I accept!" she said breathlessly.

"Arowan what art thou doing?" cried Dynaheir, appalled.

"He's right Dynaheir, when it comes to sibling murder Freya has a track record!" Arrow said. Her face was set in an expression of grim determination, though she was far from certain that she had done the right thing. "And even if you trust her, which I don't, think about who her friends are! Viconia wants _me_ dead, Edwin wants _you_ dead and Baeloth knew Irenicus in the Black Pits. For all we know they're friends!"

"Demonic influences tend to disturb the balance," Jaheira said disapprovingly, "But you may be right. Perhaps our family are in no position to turn down powerful allies."

Rasaad looked from Jaheira to Arrow, aghast, but now that the crusader's prisoner was with them the party had a new imperative to reach the circle quickly. They slipped out of the rear of the camp. The crusader encampment stretched from Boareskyr Bridge to the drawbridge of the fort but there was a triangle of land between camp, fort and river. It was here that the circle was located.

"I must speak with you!" Rasaad burst, as soon as they were out of sight of Caelar's minions.

"Can't it wait until we've seen Khalid?" snapped Jaheira, who was missing her husband and had not particularly wanted Rasaad to come in the first place.

"No!" cried Rasaad. Druid and ranger exchanged a look with raised eyebrows. Such displays of temper were unusual for the monk. He took a deep breath and collected himself. When he continued it was in a voice of forced calm. "Forgive me, but I must speak with the four of you now. This cannot wait."

"The four of you?" rumbled Dorn. "So everyone, in fact, except me? I assume, then, that you will attempt to persuade them to eject me from the party. Very well, give it your hardest try boy, but I fear you may be disappointed. Arowan had the wit to accept my aid, I doubt she will reject it now to appease your petty jealousy."

"Arowan, we need to talk now!" Rasaad insisted through gritted teeth, not taking his eyes from Dorn. "Right now."

He turned and strode determinedly away. Arrow rolled her eyes and followed him. Dynaheir and Jaheira did the same. He stormed out of earshot of Dorn, stopping at a slender birch tree, then turned to face them, his brown eyes smouldering.

"We cannot bring Dorn with us!" Rasaad said. "His demonic master (as if it were not enough that he _has_ a demonic master) commanded him to kill a man for following the Servant of all Faiths."

"I don't think he's very nice," conceded Arrow, feeling rather annoyed that Rasaad was poking his nose into her business, "But the fact that he tried to take down one of Caelar's henchmen is not a good reason to refuse his help!"

"You do not understand! Caelar is not the Servant of all Faiths, Viconia is!" the monk told them in an urgent whisper.

"Viconia?! The Servant of all gods?" Jaheira snorted with laughter.

"Shhh!" Rasaad pleaded. "Not so loud! If Dorn ever finds that out, he'll kill her!"

This did not produce the horrified reaction that Rasaad had expected. Viconia had attempted to murder both Dynaheir who was Minsc's witch and Arrow, who was Jaheira's adopted daughter. The monk had seriously misjudged his audience. None of the others seemed particularly put off by this information. Minsc nodded thoughtfully, then shrugged.

"Actually… Boo and I are ok with that," he said slowly.

"We won't tell Dorn, but if he finds out some other way and that spiteful little spider dies, I shall lose no sleep over it!" said Jaheira, voicing what the rest of them were thinking.

"I had a mind to persuade Arowan to reconsider her alliance with the half-orc," added Dynaheir with a smirk, "But thou hast convinced me of the merits of his continued presence."

"Arowan!" Rasaad appealed to the Ilmatari.

The ranger's dark eyes fixed him with a stare that could have frozen larva. The monk swallowed and took a step back as she advanced on him, her bow gripped tightly in her hand.

"Dorn is here to protect me," she told him, her voice quivering with suppressed rage. "From, among others who would do me harm: Viconia! You want to prioritise her life over mine? Thanks Rasaad. That's good to know."

"Arowan, no! I did not mean-" Rasaad cried, hurrying after her as she turned and strode purposefully toward the circle, calling for Dorn as she went.

"My Dad is trapped in there and you are wasting my time!" she snarled.

"What if- what if," Rasaad flailed desperately, until his mind lighted on a new line of argument. "Dynaheir, didn't you say before that to serve both good and evil gods, the evil that the Servant of all Faiths has to destroy must be outside the gods mandate? Like a demon? A demon like Ur-Gothoz perhaps?"

"That was only my speculation, we do not know that it is a demon," Dynaheir replied as Dorn approached them. "Though it would explain his determination to slay the Chosen One and her followers."

"Don't you feel sorry for Dorn, being forced to serve a demon?" Arrow asked in a whisper as Dorn stalked closer. "If you are right Rasaad, then Ur-Gothoz will be slain and he will be free! We should try to lead him back to the light."

Dorn took his place in the party, treading on a fallen branch and crushing it as though it were a mere leaf. Arrow looked at the size of him. She was not wholly convinced by her own argument, but the temptation not to be at the mercy of every stronger rival who wanted a piece of her was too appealing to turn down.

"Arowan, if you will pardon me for saying so, I am not sure whether it is prudent to accept the friendship of this man," Rasaad stated, adding to Dorn himself, "Forgive my bluntness."

"Not at all," leered Dorn.

"Just because he is a half-orc you think he can never be redeemed?" Arrow asked piously. "Then gods know what you make of _my_ heritage. Dorn, if there is a way to free you from Ur-Gothoz and bring you to the light I promise we will find it."

She smiled kindly at the half-orc and padded over to Jaheira who was busy activating the teleportation circle. Dorn was smiling too, a tusky smirk directed straight at Rasaad.


	23. Bridgefort

Arrow's party could see the river from the teleportation circle. From this distance it was clear that it was flowing rapidly. The water was too savage to swim upstream into the keep, but they might be able to use it to avoid bringing Dorn back through the camp where he had been held prisoner.

"Hmm," he replied when she put the plan to him. "My people are not fond of water. I know not whether I can swim. Even if I can, it would be necessary to relinquish my armour and weapons. No, little lamb. I will have to remain behind in the fort until it is time for battle."

"Not necessarily!" said Arrow, brightening. She quickly unfastened her belt and handed it to the half-orc. It looked like an ordinary leather belt, and Dorn raised a sceptical eyebrow. Arrow explained; "Rasaad- that is to say - my party- bought it for me after I almost drowned in a river. It's a magical buoyancy aid. It will keep you and your kit from sinking. Just hold your shield raised when you pass the crusaders, or they'll probably try to shoot you."

She didn't dare to meet Rasaad's eye as Dorn struggled to fit the belt around his thick waist. It wasn't as if they had much choice. If they tried to stroll back through the blockade with one of the crusader's own prisoners (and like Freya, Dorn could not be easily disguised) they'd all be killed. The only alternative would be to leave him in Bridgefort until they had lifted the siege, and who knew how long that might take.

Rasaad objectively acknowledged that it was a sensible plan, but his guts were writhing just the same. That belt had been a personal gift from him to her. It had turned out to be unnecessary, as Arrow was an accomplished swimmer. Yet through all their troubles, he had taken the fact that she had never replaced or sold it as reassurance that they were still friends. Still, it was only temporary. She was only lending it to the orc.

"Keep it if you can't swim," Arrow said to Dorn. "I actually love swimming, it was a bit of a misunderstanding that led to him – I mean them- getting this for me."

"Thank you. I shall treasure it," replied Dorn, with an ironic bow. As soon as Arrow looked away he turned to smirk at Rasaad, who had watched the scene unfurl in stunned disbelief. There was no time to do anything about it though. Jaheira had worked out how to activate the circle with her wardstone and was beckoning them over urgently.

The wardstone and circle flashed together a brilliant electric blue. Arrow shut her eyes and braced herself to be whisked away but there was no nauseating spinning nor sudden rush of movement. Just a subtle change in air temperature and smell. This was coupled with an abrupt and disconcerting shift from the ambient sounds of woodland birds to scampering feet and the urgent voices of a keep at war.

She peered around her cautiously. At first she could see little but moving shadows as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. There were no windows on the lower level of the fort and it seemed that the defenders were running low on candles. Soap too, judging by the smell of sweat and stale urine. There were dozens of people crammed awkwardly into this room. Resting soldiers, civilians and shivering children, every one of whom smelled remarkably like Dorn.

" _He could always take a bath though,"_ Arrow's libido wheedled treacherously. She shook the thought away. This was hardly the time for such ideas and besides, something about the half-orc's intense demeanour suggested to her that a night in the sack with him would not be as consequence-free as with Coran. _"No harm in a bit of fantasy though…"_

"Khalid!" called one of the soldiers gruffly. He sounded disgruntled, but then they had interrupted him in the act of removing his reeking boots. "We have company!"

The soldier did not seem particularly phased by the sudden arrival of six strangers through the circle. In fact none of them did. Why should they? They all knew that the teleportation circle existed and that Khalid's friends would be searching for a means to activate it. And what was to fear from six warriors inside the keep when several hundred enemies outside had been barraging them relentlessly for weeks?

"What is this? Wh- what's going on?" a familiar face replied bursting through one of the doorways. Arrow's heart leapt and her face split into a smile. Fatigued and harassed though he looked, her Dad was still alive. His tired eyes fell on Jaheira and all at once it was as though he'd had a solid weekend of rest.

"Wait, Jaheira?" he cried, as though begging the gods for this not to be a dream. In two strides each they crossed the room. He spun her around in relief, lifting her from her feet. "Is it truly you?"

"Has it been so long that you no longer recognize your wife?" Jaheira quipped, pressing her nose to his affectionately.

"It felt like an eternity," Khalid sighed, and ignoring the fact that they were in a crowded barracks he kissed her passionately. Arrow smiled, but also rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose, because nobody wants to be in the room when their parents are snogging. Finally the Harper's broke apart and Khalid gazed admiringly at his wife, his eyes sparkling. "You found the wardstone!"

"Mmm hmm," she smiled, lost for a moment in the bliss of reunion. "And look who I found!" Khalid raised his head and looked over her shoulder at the party she had brought with her. "Arrow!" he cried.

His face split into a broad smile and he extended a welcoming arm. Arrow, who had been patiently waiting her turn until Mum and Dad were done being gross, scurried forward to be swept into a group hug. The family stayed that way for a full minute, gripping tightly, almost afraid to let each other go. They tried not to think about what might happen to the others while they were apart, but in the backs of their minds they always knew that loss was a possibility.

"How did you f- find each other?" Khalid asked at length.

"Arrow was headed North with a Flaming Fist regiment to take on Caelar at Dragonspear," replied Jaheira. "They mean to liberate Bridgefort then cross over Boareskyr Bridge."

"Th- that is excellent news," Khalid replied, seeming to deflate with sheer relief. "We are almost at the end of our resources. Arrow, you came with them? Why?"

"Didn't have much choice," Arrow replied glumly. "What with Irenicus still lurking around."

"Irenicus?" Khalid frowned.

"The Hooded Man," Jaheira clarified for him.

"Why do the crusaders want this fort so badly?" Dorn's low rumbling voice cut into the conversation. He was surveying the dingy keep and its exhausted defenders with an underwhelmed expression. "The bridge I understand, but this place? It appears to hold little strategic value."

"They want the s- s- supplies we hold here," explained Khalid.

"You said that you were almost at the end of your resources," growled the half-orc suspiciously. "These people do not look like they have been enjoying an abundance of food and your weapons are nothing worthy of such effort. What supplies are these?"

"Thou art surprisingly sharp, half-orc," Dynaheir observed admiringly. "Perhaps thou art a worthy addition to our cause after all." Dorn raised an eyebrow at the Rashemen witch.

Khalid sagged, looking harangued once more. He led them off into a side room which was more of an empty pantry. The seven of them did not really fit, and in the end Minsc and Dorn, who were by far the largest, were obliged to listen outside.

"The truth is there never w- w- were any s- supplies," he sighed. "But the crusaders th- think there are and that's the only think keeping them from crossing the river and b- b- blowing up Boareskyr Bridge behind them. We are besieged and trapped inside while the crusaders seek the food and gold that they believe we hold here."

"Do'st the crusade not have their own food and gold?" demanded Dynaheir.

"Not at all," replied Jaheira. "The crusade may be popular but it was not well planned. In fact, as far as our sources can tell us, it seems to have arisen spontaneously. When we left you at the Friendly Arm Inn, it was an uprising of a few dozen. Now it numbers in the thousands."

"Indeed," said Rasaad. "They have mostly been feeding the army by pillaging farms and village granaries. The displaced peasants make up the bulk of the refugees I was caring for in the Iron Throne building." He paused. "So I take it that you let the crusaders believe that there are supplies here to distract them, and delay the destruction of the bridge."

"Long enough for the Fist to get here," mused Dorn. "Cunning."

Khalid looked guilty rather than proud of his idea and lowered his voice to a tremulous whisper.

"N- not all those inside kn -know about that," he stammered. "In fact most of them d- d- don't. They'd probably prefer to tell the crusade that there is nothing here so they can go home. If that were to h- happen they'll blow up the bridge and o- o- o- o…"

"…our allies across the water will be slaughtered," Jaheira finished for him.

There was a loud bang from somewhere in the courtyard and Khalid jumped like a startled rabbit. Moments later a scramble of feet came down the stairs and three defenders hurried by, carrying one of their comrades to the chapel. Arrow was no expert on injuries but she had seen a lot of death and this woman was definitely dead. An anguished young man was running along behind them begging her to hold on. Whether brother or lover, he was destined to be bereaved. She was distracted from his plight by Khalid cupping her jaw to inspect it.

"A- Arrow, what happened to your face?" he asked.

Arrow blinked, and raised her fingers to her jaw. She had almost forgotten the deep, three-line slash that she had earned in the camp brawl. With no spare healing potions to treat minor wounds, the mark had scarred. The lines had swollen for a while but now they were settling into thin, red stripes. It looked like a wild animal had scratched her across the cheek, but as she told Khalid, this was Viconia's work.

"Freya has let Viconia into her p- party? After she tried to k- k- kill you?" Khalid stammered, his eyes full of concern.

"And Edwin too," said Arrow with a strained smile. "He's as annoying and obsessed with Dynaheir as ever. The slave master, Baeloth, turned up and she's taken him on too. Even Rasaad joined her, if you'll believe it?"

Khalid's jaw clenched slightly as he looked at Rasaad. The less than enthusiastic reception the monk had received from Jaheira was mirrored in her husband's face. They quickly filled him in on how it was he had come to be in Baldur's Gate when the crusade left. Rasaad was surprised that the two of them did not already know. Arrow had been writing to them after all. They had already known about Viconia's attempt on her life and the Hooded Man. Apparently, though, she had neglected to mention his ongoing presence in the city. Perhaps she had not thought it very important. She'd had Coran to distract her after all. Soon she'd have him back, and Dorn too, who was wearing the belt Rasaad had gifted to Arrow.

"That is not entirely fair," Rasaad said, feeling the need to defend himself from the implication that he had abandoned Arrow in favour of Freya. "I have to try to find the missing Selunites and Arrow refused to allow me to rejoin her party."

"Did she?" cut in Jaheira imperiously. "Good."

"P- probably just as well," agreed Khalid, who was eyeing Rasaad with an expression of pronounced mistrust.

Arrow looked around the fort, pretending she could not hear them. The truth was that she still cared deeply for the monk, and he did make it seem as though her feelings were returned. Yet a nagging voice in the back of her head was telling her that her parents were probably right. From what Freya had told her, the monk's issues were understandable but deep rooted. Continuing to love him was almost certainly setting herself up for more pain, but she could not just turn it off.

As she meandered away, Dorn following her like a guard dog, she heard Minsc taking his turn to voice his opinion to Khalid. The Rashemen's interest lay less in the fort and more in the half-elf's wife. He clapped him heartily on the back, making the smaller warrior stumble forward.

"Boo says that you are a fortunate man indeed!" Minsc boomed amiably, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh! Th- th- thank you?" Khalid spluttered as Minsc enveloped him in his broad arms and lifted him off the ground. So warm was the hug from this strange man that were it not for his armour, Khalid might have broken a rib. "You look familiar h- have we m- m- met?"

"Have we met?" cried Minsc. "Who can forget Minsc and Boo? But of course, it was the Nashkel Carnival and you must have been distracted by Jaheira and her mesmerizing beating of the swindling games man."

Minsc closed his eyes fondly, savouring the memory. The gamesman had been using a hidden lever to swindle all his punters. After Jaheira had finished with him the poor man had lost not only his dignity and his livelihood, but quite possibly also the ability to ever father children.

"Ah yes th- the Wheel of Fortune," Khalid recalled, with only the hint of a wince. "That was definitely s- s- something! A- and how could I forget Boo?"

Jaheira quickly returned the conversation to the subject of the fort and what to do about it. To Dorn's transparent disgust, Arrow wanted to negotiate a surrender that left no casualties on either side. Her other companions were not surprised that the Ilmatari took this stance but her plan had a rather glaring flaw. Nobody but her seemed to think it remotely likely that Corwin and Freya would agree to it.

"We _must_ seek their permission before surrendering Bridgefort," Jaheira said seriously. "Else we could all be charged with treason."

"You cannot truly believe that Freya would do that to her own sister?" cried Rasaad.

The rest of the party thought about Freya, her track record with her brothers and her generally abysmal judgement. They exchanged doubtful looks, even Minsc and Dynaheir who had been her friends and companions until she accepted Viconia into her party.

"We'd better ask Captain Corwin first," Arrow agreed. She smiled at Khalid encouragingly. "Hang in there, Dad, we'll be back soon."

"Your father and I have matters we must discuss in private," Jaheira said. "I will meet the rest of you back at the camp. Don't forget to return Keherrem's badge or they'll get suspicious." She seized Khalid's hand and led him firmly in the direction of an empty pantry.

They passed through the camp, returning the dead crusader's badge to his grieving uncle on the way, and waited downriver for Dorn to catch up. At length he appeared around a river bend. Rasaad's jealous anger at Arrow for giving him her belt was mitigated by the undignified sight of the half-orc bobbing down the river like a cork. A few crusader arrows poked out of his shield but he had escaped his ordeal unharmed and was paddling his feet furiously under the inflatable belt, in order to return to land.

"I wonder what Jaheira stayed behind to talk to Khalid about?" pondered Rasaad aloud. He was secretly fretting that it might be him. Neither of them had seemed at all pleased to see him in the company of their ward. "Harper business perhaps?"

To his surprise and embarrassment he found himself surrounded by snorts of laughter. Dorn, from a distance, mistakenly assumed that they were laughing at him in his rubber ring and redoubled his efforts to reach shore.

" _Talk_ about?! That is adorable!" cried Dynaheir, almost in tears of mirth. "Sweet monk, I do not believe that even mine own Minsc is so innocent as thou art!"

"This is true. Minsc knows about the birds AND about the bees!" confirmed the berserker proudly. "When we get back to camp we can have a man to man! Or perhaps a man to man to miniature giant space hamster. Boo can help with the details, he has considerable experience in these matters."

Though the Rashemen only meant their giggles in the friendliest way, Rasaad disliked being a figure of fun. Especially when one of the people laughing at him was Arrow. He grew rather sullen and taciturn on the way back to camp.

Back in the barren pantry, Jaheira and Khalid had come up for air only long enough to rip off the ginger man's helmet and cast it to one side with a clang. He had not had a proper wash in weeks and it showed, but the druid wanted him too badly to care. Her husband had held the fort heroically all this time and gods she had missed him, missed this…

She unbuckled his breast plate while he fumbled with the ties on her leather armour. It was unlikely that anyone would bother to come in here, it wasn't like there was any food, but just in case, Jaheira tapped the door with her staff. Entangling vines sprang from the ground and knotted their way through the wood, jamming it closed.

The only light came from a small, flickering oil lamp, but she could make out Khalid's unshaven jawline and the orange fluff on his chest. She made an appreciative noise and began kissing his throat.

The pantry was too small to lie down in and there were shelves lining every wall, long since stripped bare. Khalid gingerly tested the door with his gauntlet covered hand, but it gave a great groaning squeak like a mating tortoise. While those outside could probably make an educated guess what husband and wife were 'talking about,' up against the door would be embarrassingly blatant. Fortunately there was also a small table in the pantry at just the right height. Jaheira smiled at her husband suggestively, then turned and bent over it.

Khalid's eyes widened in the dark, taking in the curves of her hips and rear, as though committing the image to memory. He removed his gloves, placing them on one of the pantry shelves and crossed the room to her, unfastening his belt as he went. He stroked his hands down her thighs and Jaheira let out a contented sigh.

He positioned himself behind her, breathing heavily and pressing himself into her arse with a low moan of relief. He slid his sword-hand around and under her, finding her clit and working his hand in small circles. She gave an excited gasp and gripped the edge of the table with her fingers. Only when she was reeling with pleasure and the effort of keeping quiet did he sheath himself fully inside of her, with a low moan. She instructed him to speed up and in response Khalid slammed into her, groaning, sweat dripping down his back. Jaheira pressed herself back into him, making approving noises and lifting her ankle a little to stroke his calf.

Poor Khalid could not understand what such a beautiful woman saw in him, but he forced himself not to think like that. There had been a few embarrassing occasions early in their relationship when thoughts like this had made him utterly unable to perform. Jaheira had been rather hurt and offended by this at first, and he'd had a great deal of difficulty explaining the problem through his nervous stammering. Long before their marriage, Jaheira had grown used to and accepted the fact that her man was prone to loosing his nerve, but he did not want that to happen now.

"Khalid," she called his name throatily. "You know I love you. I love you so much."

Despite the fact that Jaheira accepted it as part of who he was, Khalid had never stopped feeling embarrassed whenever it happened. He was rapidly switching from enjoying himself to panicking, desperate not to fail her. But trying too hard to stay hard could only have one outcome.

"I love you too," he gasped, feeling himself starting to lose it. "I can't bear it when we're apart, I- _RGGHH!_ "

His hand shot out suddenly to catch himself on the edge of the table as he pretended to come, collapsing forward and shuddering heavily. Khalid took a few deep breaths, bracing himself and then withdrew. He had managed to hold onto it just long enough to fake and save face. The shortness of their coupling could be put down to it having been so long since their last time together. Jaheira looked happy anyway, though he could not fathom why. She could do so much better.

Were they on the road or staying at an inn, this would be the part where they curled up to sleep in each other's arms, but in the present situation that was not an option. Not least because of lack of space. He badly wished that they could have just a few hours. After eight years of marriage he had grown so used to her warm weight beside him and the sound of her breath that he had difficulty sleeping in her absence.

The Harpers re-clothed and stood up slowly before sneaking out. Of course, in such cramped confines there was a limited amount of sneaking they could do. A grouchy, exhausted looking wizard who had been maintaining the barriers rolled his eyes at them as they emerged. Jaheira gave him a condescending look, daring him to say something. The wizard wisely decided not to.

"How will you get out of the keep and through the b- blockade?" Khalid asked anxiously, stroking her cheek with his finger.

"I will jump from the keep into the river of course. Swim out like Dorn did," said Jaheira.

"No, that is too d- dangerous!" Khalid protested. "The river is too fast, you haven't got Arrow's magic belt, and what if the crusaders see you?"

Jaheira raised an eyebrow and as she did it thickened. Brown fur sprouted from her arms and cheeks as her clothes receded into her body. Khalid took in one last view of his beautiful wife before the druid transformed into a huge grizzly bear. Her husband relaxed a little. It was a large and powerful enough animal to tackle the river and as for the crusaders…

"…nobody messes with bears."

Rasaad's mood did not improve when they got to the camp. They were a long way from Baldur's Gate now and it had taken Coran longer to arrive this time, even after plying his horse with potions of speed, but by the time they returned from the fort the elf was there. He was sitting in Rasaad's usual spot around Freya's campfire. When he caught sight of Arrow he greeted her with a knowing smile that made Rasaad want to knock his teeth out.

"Rasaad!" the elf called jovially. "Did you switch parties?"

"No," said Arrow, very firmly. She plucked an apple from her pack and fed it to Coran's horse absent mindedly. As the animal was still pumped up on hastening potions she was left with a palmful of sweet-scented apple mush and horse saliva in two seconds flat. The ranger wrinkled her nose and wiped her hand on the grass, but the stomping of hundreds of Flaming Fist boots had made the ground so soft that her fingers came up even slimier.

"You might want to reconsider, monk," Coran said seriously. "The crazy Hero wants to feed us to a dragon."

"Coran, my bitch, you owe me!" grinned Freya, in a tone that suggested she was only half joking. "I lost a fortune bailing you out of that Flaming Fist cell, and worse I had to sell my armour. Now's your chance to help me recoup my losses, and a ten percent cut for yourself too."

"You mean twenty percent?" frowned Arrow. "And I thought you people consider the word 'bitch' racist?"

"Yeah, it's almost as bad as being referred to as 'you people'!" Freya muttered. Then she sighed. Freya was not one to hold onto prolonged grudges. Those people who really hacked her off enough for that tended to get decapitated. She explained more patiently; "It's different if werewolves call each other 'bitch,' and we might call a human friend a bitch or a dog as a term of endearment. But if Coran were to call me it back, that's always racist. That's just how it is."

"And she does mean ten percent," said Dynaheir tersely. "Freya always takes half for herself then divides what's left between the rest of the party.

"Yeah, but this time I mostly just want the scales," admitted Freya, twirling Sarevok's sword with a mad glint in her grey eyes. "Dragon scale armour. The best a mortal can get!"

"You want to skin a sentient creature and wear it?" cried Arrow, appalled. "What's the matter with you? Has this dragon even done anything to you?"

"Why does it need to have done something?" growled Dorn. "Taking its horde and scales will enhance the Hero's power. A prudent and sensible murder. We should offer our assistance."

"We will not!" cried Arrow. "Are you really that much of a coward Freya? That you'd kill a bystander just so you have better armour when you next have to face Irenicus?"

Freya shrugged and hefted her sword again. Neither she nor Arrow had ever actually met a dragon, but in her opinion it was essentially just a giant lizard like the basilisk. She was as justified in wearing it for armour as Arrow was in wearing the cow that died to make her leathers. Besides, she had a reason.

"The dragon woman in the Cyric temple said it was her sister," said Freya. "And I didn't see any chains tying it down. Sentient or not it probably follows Cyric. You think when the refugees finally stagger back to their land, we should leave a mad-god worshipping dragon for them to contend with?"

"Probably follows?" spat Arowan. " _Probably?_ Are you going to bother to ask before you murder it?" She looked around for support and her eyes flashed with anger at Coran. "And you're ok with this? That's just great."

"This is the Bhaalspawn Ur-Gothoz bids me follow?" frowned Dorn quietly. "There must be some mistake."

"It is my fault Freya had to give up her last suit of armour," Coran replied doubtfully. "She's right, I owe her a replacement, and if the dragon is a follower of Cyric…"

Rasaad had given little thought to the morality of slaying the dragon. Though now that Arrow put it like this he agreed with her, and since he had not yet nailed his colours to the mast, he had an opportunity to outshine both of his rivals at once.

"Might I suggest that you allow me to attempt to negotiate with the dragon before we attack," Rasaad suggested, the picture of Selunite calm and reason. "She may have no hostile intent, and even if she does we have an army. Perhaps she could be persuaded to leave the region of her own accord."

Arrow smiled at him, and Coran sighed to his leader that the ranger did have a point. Freya ground her back teeth. A peaceful solution with the dragon would not provide her with the magical armour she badly needed if she were to stand a chance against Irenicus. Yet she was outvoted. Her two mages were still recovering from revival and in no state to fight. With two more of her party, Coran and Rasaad, taking Arrow's side, the werewolf's armour ambitions seemed thoroughly thwarted.

As they debated, a dripping wet bear wandered to the edge of camp. They watched as it shook its soaking fur out over a nervous guard and transformed sleekly back into a druid. Under different circumstances Freya might have appreciated watching an attractive woman transform, but forfeiting her dragon scales had put her in a foul mood.

"Fine Rasaad. Attempt to talk with the sweet, innocent Cyric-dragon," Freya snarled sarcastically. "Jaheira, what news from the fort? Are the poor little crusaders just misunderstood? Shall we send Rasaad in to negotiate with them and see if they'll go away of their own accord?"

"Of course not!" Jaheira snapped impatiently. "Khalid will negotiate the fort's surrender."

"Khalid will negotiate the _what?"_ " yelped Freya. Arrow could see from her reaction that she was as opposed to this idea as her companions had predicted she would be. The Sergeant appealed to her commanding officer. "Captain, we can't possibly allow Bridgefort to surrender!"

"Not happening," agreed Corwin flatly.

"Think of all the lives it will save on both sides," Arrow pleaded. "The crusaders only want the fort for its supplies, but it hasn't got any supplies. It will be a hollow victory."

"The blockade is only manned by a modest division of enemy troops. They have a few hundred soldiers, whereas we have the bulk of our army here!" snarled Freya. "You're talking about sparing crusader lives! If we do, do you reckon they'll go home nicely? Will they fuck! They'll march to Dragonspear to rejoin Caelar's main army and we'll end up fighting them later with worse odds. Better to pick them off in small groups if we can!"

"No! Arrow is right, the fort should surrender!" Skie said suddenly.

Everybody turned to look at her. It was not like Skie to take more than a passing interest in military issues. Normally the Duke's daughter was more concerned with her nails getting chipped or how greasy and gross her hair was getting on the march. Corwin looked as though she would like to give the young aristocrat another verbal beating, but in front of Freya that might be a bad idea. The werewolf had been a lot better behaved lately, but Corwin knew insulting Skie to her canine lover's face might be pushing her luck.

"Skie it's sweet that you want to save lives," Freya said in a patient but patronizing way. "But you can't. We end this detachment now or they'll come back stronger later. We wouldn't be saving lives, just swapping crusader lives for Fist lives."

"I _really_ think you should let the fort surrender," Skie pressed meaningfully. Arrow, who had always imagined the aristocrat to be nice but a bit vapid, was pleasantly surprised to see her taking such a strong stance on a moral issue. Skie turned to her. "Arrow, let me talk to Freya and the Captain for a minute, would you?"

She disappeared with the Captain and Sergeant into the sea of Flaming Fist tents. The others assumed that she must have played all her cards as Freya's lover and the daughter of the Grand Duke, because when she came back both senior officers were in total agreement. Arrow should return to the fort and arrange for Khalid to negotiate a surrender.

"Right, now back to the important battle!" Freya exclaimed, rubbing her hands together as Corwin scowled at her. "Coran, Rasaad, we have a dragon to… er… negotiate with. Corwin, you coming?"

"Ten percent of that horde would let me retire from the Fist in a few years," Corwin muttered. "Hells, I'm in."

"Viconia?" Freya grinned. The drow, who had been listening to the debate in silence, took a moment to mull it over. Facing a dragon was a possible death sentence but without her, their reckless, injury-prone Hero would have no healer. Losing her werewolf protector was at least as great a risk as facing the dragon.

"I suppose you'll be sitting it out with Baeloth?" Corwin asked Viconia archly. "I wouldn't expect a drow to risk their neck for anyone else. Why Freya keeps people like you around is beyond me."

Viconia ignored Corwin's dislike of her kind. She would expect nothing else from the Flaming Fist. It had been their feeble attempts at summary execution that had driven her into Jaheira and Rasaad's company in the first place. Rasaad, however, was troubled. He liked and respected Corwin as a dedicated upholder of the law and a brave warrior. It disappointed him to see her behaving in such a transparently bigoted way, but he said nothing. Corwin liked him but not, he suspected, enough that she would be open to hearing his criticism.

"I'm coming," Viconia said coldly. "And since you are new to adventuring parties, I will offer you some friendly advice. Do not speak thus to your cleric, unless you enjoy the agonizing process of slow-healing battle wounds."

"So we are agreed, we are not attacking the dragon?" said Rasaad.

"Unless it attacks us first," replied Freya hopefully.

"How Minsc wishes that he were coming with you!" cried the berserker mournfully. "Evil drow are no substitute for my boot and my hamster when it comes to kicking potentially-evil dragon butt!"

Baeloth and Edwin, who were still recovering from their recent revival, were listening from the edge of the healer's tent. Both of them were secretly pleased to be missing out on confronting the dragon. Particularly the Red Wizard who had been bullied into accepting a much lower than usual cut of the party gold and had little to gain from this risky exploit.

"I wish you and your witch were going to fight a dragon too. Indeed, slaying an evil dragon will be a great and noble quest. Protect the filthy peasants… etcetera, etcetera," cheered Edwin from his sick bed, adding quietly, "Never mind Odesseiron. At least with any luck the sanctimonious eunuch will get burned to a crisp and eaten."

Rasaad narrowed his eyes. He tolerated Edwin to a point, despite his transparently villainous nature, but the mumbling Red Wizard grated on his nerves. He tried, according to the teachings of Selune, to keep an open mind about everyone. Yet he had found no redeeming qualities in the, as Baeloth put it, 'preening pretentious peacock of a paranormal practitioner.'

Imoen was also in the healer's tent, a bedroll back from the two wizards. Most of the debate had gone over her head, but she had been able to gather that Jaheira had seen Khalid and returned without him. She was feeling much better today. It was strange. In the early hours of the morning the headache which had tormented her for days had simply vanished. It felt as if a dam had burst, releasing the horrible pressure in her skull, and after that she'd been fine.

Glint, however, had disagreed, going to the extreme of having her paralysed to prevent her from getting up. Notionally this was so that the healers could be sure that she had fully recovered. However, Imoen suspected that the gnome was trying to prevent her from assaulting Baeloth again. He seemed to have taken a shine to the silver haired gentleman. It was not until much later that evening that Glint returned from a walk and declared that she was completely cured and free to return to her tent.

"Should I take some of those special patches you were giving me for my headaches?" asked Imoen. "Just in case they come back?"

"No, no, no," trilled Glint vaguely. "I am _certain_ they won't! The patches have served their purpose… you weren't too uncomfortable were you?"

"It was the worst experience of my entire life," Imoen cried, bemused. "Couldn't you hear me screaming? I thought I was begging you to kill me at one point… or maybe that was just a dream."

She got up and returned to her own tent, her mind on Jaheira and Khalid. The druid had not stayed at Bridgefort with her husband, nor had she used the wardstone to bring him back with her. Perhaps they had argued? Maybe spending some time apart had shown them that their marriage wasn't working and it was time to say goodbye to each other.

"Ah, the knife wielding crazy is well again," Baeloth noted as he watched her go, nervously fingering the place where Imoen had stabbed him. Arrow's party bid an unfriendly goodnight, while Freya's settled around the healer's tent to discuss dragon slaying tactics.

"Imoen is really nice," said Freya, aware of how hollow her words must sound after Imoen had tried to savagely slaughter him without provocation. "She gets protective of the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn."

"The poor girl has had to endure a great deal," agreed Rasaad, "One must make allowances. As the monks of Selune put it, a broken mirror reflects its light in unpredictable ways, but has its own beauty nevertheless."

"Even the monk agrees that she is a lunatic. Best not to go near her if you have ever crossed the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn. The brat is made of pieces of their soul," remarked Edwin, "Or some such convoluted nonsense. Though her aggression is nothing that a quick lobotomy wouldn't fix."


	24. Unity

The evening wore on, and despite turning in early both Imoen and Jaheira were struggling to sleep. The druid knew all about Imoen's feelings for Khalid and Imoen knew it. Yet Imoen could not bring herself to truly hate Jaheira the way she hated Viconia, Edwin and Baeloth. Her rival protected and loved one of her Bhaalspawn, and her attachment to those pieces of her soul ran far deeper than mere jealousy. Jaheira may be domineering and bossy but she was also Arrow's adopted mother. Yet months apart had not dampened her infatuation. He was still the first thing she thought about in the morning and the last thing she thought about at night. What's more, encouraged by Jaheira's return to camp absent her husband, Imoen had made up her mind to risk telling him so.

Coran needed somewhere to spend the night. This was strictly against Duke Silvershield's instructions but Captain Corwin agreed not to report it provided he rode back to Baldur's Gate as soon as the dragon was dealt with. To the elf's surprise, Rasaad invited him to share his own tent. The monk fancied himself quite mature and selfless for this act, though if he were being honest with himself at least half his motivation was to distract Coran from seeking out Arrow's company.

"Best turn in then," yawned Freya with a grin. She took a long gulp out of her private hip flask and Rasaad's brow furrowed. The Hero had drunk more than was good for her for as long as he had known her, yet she seemed to have taken it to a new level since they returned from the temple. Something strange had happened to her in there. Freya had remembered being Bhaal. She turned to Skie and asked almost resignedly; "And what about you my wily lady? My tent or Bence's?"

"Neither," replied Skie curtly. "I have letters to write. Father has informed me of an arson attempt on our estate. No harm was done, our servants put it out in the foyer before the fire got going, but I need to arrange to have some of my personal assets relocated. Coran, will you take the letters for me when you ride back?"

"Certainly, my lady," replied Coran gallantly.

"Perhaps you could also give me your impression of the state of the city?" the young aristocrat said in a surprisingly authoritarian tone. "Father's correspondence to me has a tendency to sugar-coat bad news."

"Things have gotten even worse at the Gate," replied Coran. "They're rioting at the gates of the Ducal Palace and the only break the Flaming Fist get these days is for a few hours before they're resurrected. You need to wrap up this war Freya. The city needs you back."

"Does it though?" asked a bright, cheery voice.

Freya's party looked down. Glint had popped up like a mushroom in the middle of the group. He was twirling his blue gnomish beard thoughtfully as he surveyed Freya. His tone was as pleasant and friendly as ever, but not for the first time Freya was struck by the powerful impression that the gnome did not like her.

"I mean, I'm not saying this situation isn't bad," he elaborated. "It's very bad. Bad as bad gets! Only… since we are where we are, wouldn't it be better to fix the problems?"

"As opposed to what?" demanded Corwin aggressively. Glint was a protestor known to the Flaming Fist who believed in equality and an end to Lords and Ladies. Unsurprisingly she and Duke Silvershield detested him, though most other people found him likeable enough.

He smiled at Corwin disarmingly and offered her some cookies from his pouch. They were chocolate chip and rather crumbled from having been battered around his pack for days, but still better than Fist rations. She glowered at him frostily and refused to accept one, so he offered them in turn to Rasaad and Skie, who each took a cookie politely.

Rasaad ate his immediately, but the young aristocrat kept hers in her hand, rubbing crumbs thoughtfully between her finger and thumb. Finally he offered a snack to Freya. To Corwin's annoyance the werewolf took a cookie too, rather than shunning him as she had. The gnome continued speaking but as he did, he never took his bright eyes from the cookie in the Hero's hand. As a result, he failed to notice Skie pointing to her own snack behind his back and vigorously shaking her head. Freya lowered the cookie gingerly.

"Yeah Glint," she said slowly. "As opposed to what?"

"As opposed to getting a charismatic leader to give a few crowd-pleasing speeches to pacify the people," Glint replied defiantly, "Then sending them home to the same hunger, disease and poverty they always have to deal with."

Freya's wolfish grey eyes narrowed. She may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but even she knew that what the gnome was saying was teetering on the edge of rebellion. She looked at Skie and at the cookie he had given her.

"I don't think you're a good influence," she growled at him, a suspicious note creeping into her hoarse voice. "The goblin shaman will tend to Imoen's headaches from now on, and anyone else in my party who needs healing when Viconia isn't here."

"Fine, fine," trilled Glint as Corwin nodded her agreement with Freya. "Imoen's headaches have stopped in any case. Those patches I gave her did the trick."

"Do you have any more of those patches?" asked Skie shrewdly, pocketing the cookie. "I have been getting headaches myself, I'd like to try one."

"Have you? You never said!" Freya cried, concerned. Skie couldn't help rolling her eyes at how slow the werewolf could be on the uptake sometimes. At least she had taken the hint and not eaten one of those cookies.

"I… I'd have to make another one," replied Glint. "Imoen used the last of my stock."

"I beg your pardon," Rasaad yawned. "I fear I must excuse myself from our meditations this evening and turn in. It has been a long day."

The monk lumbered dozily to his tent accompanied by his temporary bunk mate. By the time they reached it, he was near asleep and Coran was having to half-carry him. This was no easy feat considering their relative sizes. Skie watched the two men with a calculating expression on her delicate features. Despite Corwin looking like she was seriously considering just shooting him through the head and having done, Glint was warming to his subject matter. This time he addressed the young noblewoman directly, making her jump out of her thoughts.

"I mean Skie," Glint went on reasonably, too caught up in his ideology to sense the danger. "How do you feel about children starving to death in the gutter, while you pick at the food your personal chef has slaved over to serve you on a silver plate?"

This question upset Skie. She had not asked to be born into the nobility and while she may not go to Arrow-like extremes when it came to helping the poor, she had been known to forgo the occasional new bracelet so she could toss some gold to the beggars. The starving people thronging Baldur's Gate were Caelar's doing, not hers. She was saved having to answer by Corwin, which gave her time to think. People could not eat gold and silver, which meant that somebody may as well own it. Selling the family plates to buy food for the poor only helped, after all, if there was food to buy.

"That 'slaving' personal chef has a good wage and first pick of the leftovers," Corwin snapped. " _His_ children won't be starving. In fact they're probably twice Skie's weight!"

"Those silver plates spare Baldur's Gate from many wars," Skie said quietly.

"Yeah exactly- wait what?" Freya frowned, wanting to defend Skie but totally baffled by this bizarre statement.

"The vast palaces, the silver crockery, the vintage wine collection," Skie explained, "They're not about luxury, they're about power. We're the leaders of Baldur's Gate. If we look poor, the city looks weak. How would Thay respond to that, or the Zhentarim? Even Amn are always eyeing us up, looking to see if they can get away with expanding their Northern border. Those silver plates make us look powerful when their diplomats come visiting. They are for everyone, they protect every citizen of Baldur's Gate."

"Your father told you that I expect?" replied Glint. "A convenient belief, if you want to make excuses to yourself."

He eyed Corwin, whose fingers were twitching over an acid arrow, and Freya who loomed protectively over Skie. With a polite bow he turned and scurried away into the shadows. Skie shook her head as she watched him go. Those thoughts had not been her father's but her own. Daddy had never really understood these things, and that was a big part of the problem.

"Well he has some unconventional opinions," Skie said, looking hurt. "What am I supposed to have done to him?"

"Who cares? He's just a gnome," shrugged Freya indifferently.

"Watch out for that one," Corwin said darkly. "Both of you. If he and his friends get their way, all three of us will wind up with our heads mounted over the city gates."

"Yeah, but he won't get his way because he's a harmless little gnome," laughed Freya. "And in any case he doesn't strike me as the violent type. I've got enough real enemies without worrying about him."

"I'm telling you he's a liability," Corwin said seriously. "He might not be violent but his friends are! He is far from harmless!"

"Why didn't you want me to eat the cookie anyway?" asked Freya. "Are they turnip flavoured?"

"Chocolate chip," replied Skie.

Freya gave her a shifty, rebellious look, opened her mouth and hastily tried to cram the treat inside. "DROP!" Skie commanded. To her embarrassment, Freya's fingers slackened reflexively. The cookie fell to the floor and Skie scooped it up. She flicked Freya's nose. "You know you can't cope with chocolate! Do you want to face that dragon vomiting?"

"I suppose not," sighed Freya reluctantly. Sometimes being a dog sucked. Death by chocolate was a real possibility for her, though one cookie wouldn't have done more than give her mild indigestion.

Skie shivered in the cooling night air. In the morning she would pass the cookies to Edwin and Baeloth to take a peek at. She had to be sure before she voiced her suspicions. Corwin's suggestion that they hang Glint for his political beliefs was no empty threat. Her father and the Flaming Fist had seen 'dissidents' sent to the block before, and only succeeded in making the people angrier with them in the process. The Captain was gunning to get rid of Glint already. Any suggestion that he might be the spy and she would use it as an excuse to have him run through.

Though Arrow went to bed first, she fell asleep long after Freya, physically frustrated as she was. Her thoughts flickered from Coran to Dorn and back again. Even Edwin was starting to look appealing. She rarely thought that way about Rasaad these days, it was just too painful. When she finally managed to doze off though, it was immediately apparent that she would not be permitted a normal night's rest. This dream felt as cold and unnatural as the one about Sarevok, and she knew before she saw him that it was a creation of Irenicus's.

"Oh, you're here. Finally," snapped Freya, who had been slouched, arms folded against the brick wall of a castle. Candlekeep, Arrow realised, looking up at those familiar battlements. "He made us wait for you. I had thought bringing Imoen here would put a stop to all this."

"It did for a while," Irenicus' harsh, piercing voice came from the entrance to the keep. Imoen was standing in one of the flowerbeds, staring blankly ahead. "You did her no favours by removing her from my care. Opening the door to her mind from a distance was a difficult process, I could not have done it without help. Her headaches must have been excruciating… but no matter. I have blasted a hole in her mind's defences, and it will not close again."

"Fuck you!" growled Freya, getting to her feet and joining Arrow. "I'm going to make you regret this one of these days!" Right now, though, her threats were hollow and her sword impotent. Assaults on Irenicus in these dreams simply passed straight through him. He gestured to Imoen who walked toward the Bhaalspawn slowly, with glassy dead eyes.

"Books for bones… words for blood. Candlekeep. Our home. It wasn't your fault we had to leave," Imoen whispered faintly. "Only… it was, wasn't it?"

"This was never my home," Arrow shivered. Freya shot her a dark sideways glare. The sisters had never been able to see eye to eye about Gorion. He had neglected Arrow and his behaviour toward Imoen amounted to psychological abuse. Yet to Freya he was 'Dad' and she would never hear a word against him.

"You were all I had left in the world, and you abandoned me," Imoen said sadly. "I have nothing left now. Nothing."

"Actually, strictly speaking _you_ abandoned _me_ ," replied Arrow. They had been travelling together when Imoen had opted to ditch her to go and find Freya. Imoen's main reason for leaving had been to get away from Jaheira and her hopeless crush on Khalid, but Arrow knew nothing about this and had taken it personally. The ranger felt that she had accepted being dropped in favour of Freya with pretty good grace, so it was a little galling to be accused of abandoning Imoen, even if this was only a dream.

"I'm tired. I'm so tired." Imoen sighed deeply. "There are too many voices. You two… Eric… Draxle… Afoxe… Thorg… Azile… I just want one less voice." She drew a dagger from her belt and pressed it into Freya's hand. She grasped the werewolf's hand and moved it so that the tip of the dagger pressed into her forehead. "I need you to do it. For me."

"Do it!" cried Irenicus, far too eagerly. "You owe her this!"

" _I'm supposed to cut out my piece of soul from her mind,"_ Freya frowned. _"But is she asking me to do this, or is he?"_ For a moment she considered obeying, to sever the link between herself and the other Candlekeep Bhaalspawn. Imoen seemed to want her to do it and she might never get another chance to reclaim her missing piece of soul. But her sister's voice broke through her thoughts like a battering ram.

"You must think we were born yesterday!" Arrow yelled. "You want us to sever the link between us! You're trying to get us to cut our pieces of soul away from Imoen. Why?"

"So you are not entirely stupid after all," Irenicus sneered frostily. "No matter. I will find another way. The pieces that make up her soul may not be split by your hand, but they will be split. She is nothing more than a chimera of stolen pieces of soul, held together by the weakest of bonds."

Ten people marched in a line out of the gates of the Candlekeep library. Arrow recognized them as Gorion's other wards. Originally he had taken twelve Bhaalspawn from the temple and hidden them in Candlekeep under a powerful spell. It had made everybody except himself and Imoen, even the wards themselves, believe that they were all one person. Elminster discovered what he was up to in the end but by then it was far too late. Gorion had shaved a piece from each of the twelve souls and rolled them into one. A patchwork soul to revive his dead daughter.

Imoen did not know whether to be overjoyed to see these ten Bhaalspawn or petrified. They formed a ring around her from which there was no way out. There was a half-orc with no legs, a very small boy with a caved in chest, a diseased pre-teen, a paladin whose head was hanging on by a thin tendril of skin and muscle and severed heads rolling along the ground. They looked as they did at the moment of their deaths, when they had dusted. Only one of the adults possessed an intact body and that was Eric, who had died from numbing potion withdrawal. He was carrying the worst of them in his arms, a shredded, limbless torso with aching black eyes and a face pocked with toothmarks.

"Why you leave when I say?" the half-orc demanded. "You thief! You should have been there to disarm trap that kill me!"

"I couldn't be with all of you!" cried Imoen. "It's not my fault Thorg, you told me to go!"

"Where were you when the gnolls tore my body apart?" the shredded half-elf in Eric's arms asked Imoen sadly.

"Draxle…" Imoen's eyes welled with tears and darted frantically from one to the other. They were moving forward slowly, tightening the circle. As they whispered their recriminations and blamed Imoen for their deaths, she wailed and put her hands over her ears. Closing her eyes, she crouched in a ball and rocked back and forth as if trying to block them out.

"You and Gorion, like, watched Sarevok murder me," said a young paladin of Helm, whose curly-haired head kept flopping awkwardly around his almost-severed neck. "But you did nothing Imoen. Not cool."

"That wasn't Dad's fault!" Freya bellowed angrily. She had run when Gorion commanded her to, and his resulting death was still a sore spot. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. Irenicus watched her excitedly.

"Where were you, Imoen, when Gorion's horse kicked me?" sniffled the little boy.

"A better question would be where was Gorion?" retorted Arrow angrily. Then she took a deep breath and to Imoen's surprise she smiled and waggled a finger at Irenicus. "Ah…" she said. "I see what you're doing. Trying to force conflict between us and the other fragments of soul. Making us repel each other so we'll break apart. Give it up. It's not happening."

The insubstantial vision of the Hooded Man strode over to her. Arrow felt herself tense in fear as he peered deeply into her face. He raised his hand as if to cup her jaw, yet it passed straight through her. She shuddered. The wizard's skin had a stretched, overly stiff quality like that of a corpse. Bolts had been drilled into it at regular intervals as though to keep him from falling apart. Under the hood, she could see a leather cap, screwed into his skull with steel bolts.

"What happened to you?" she asked. "Are you _dead?_ "

Irenicus actually laughed, or at least the corner of his lip twitched upward a fraction, but it was cold and humourless. He found her surprisingly perceptive, but only in the same way she might watch the antics of a woodland squirrel and think it surprisingly clever. It was fortuitous that she had been blessed with the common sense and not her more powerful sister, or he might have a genuine challenge on his hands.

"You have neither strength nor intelligence to match your wisdom," Irenicus observed. "If you did, I would have chosen you and not your sister. A great pity. Very well, go back for now. We'll try again later."

The walls of Candlekeep melted away as the images of the dead Bhaalspawn dissolved into the earth. Arrow began to feel her real body; her eyes struggling to open, the warmth of her bedroll and her bladder signalling that she would soon be obligated to leave it. Irenicus took Imoen's hand and led her through the doors of the rapidly disappearing keep.

"Send Sarevok next time!" heckled Freya, as the two sisters felt the call of the waking world. "He was much more fun! Can't wait to kill him with his own sword."

And then they were gone. Everything was gone, except for a lone armoured figure lingering on in the void. His glowing yellow eyes were the sole source of light in the dark abyss.

"Fear not sister," he said. "I'm still here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops- posted two chapters in the wrong order. Hopefully I fixed that before anyone tried to read it but apologies if it was confusing.


	25. Dragon Slayers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally posted this chapter and 'Unity' in the wrong order. Think I managed to correct if before anyone read it but sorry if it was confusing.
> 
> Zhenta

"So, is Arrow seeing that monk?" Coran asked Freya quietly. The party were approaching the dragon's cave. It was another bright, sunny day, but early enough that it had not yet grown uncomfortably hot. They, Corwin, Rasaad and Viconia had left first thing in the morning. The monk had proven surprisingly sluggish and difficult to rouse, though Coran was certain that he had slept solidly all night. At first Coran had worried that Rasaad might be too unwell for the task ahead. Yet the walk had revived him, and now he was bickering energetically with Viconia about the merits of their respective faiths. Each of them had decided that the Flaming Fist Captain was a juicy target for conversion, and were giving her the religious hard-sell. Poor Corwin was sandwiched between them, thinking that even getting eaten by a dragon had to be better than this.

"Thinking about going back for seconds? I don't think so, but Arrow picked up a juggernaut of a half-orc at the crusader camp," Freya grinned mischievously. She did not really think for one instant that the Ilmatari was likely to strike up a relationship with a Blackguard. Rasaad was in a vulnerable place though, and could do without the competition from Coran. "Big fellow, really big," Freya hammed it up. "Could even give me a run for my money. I wouldn't risk it if I were you."

"Oh," sighed Coran glumly. Then almost immediately his cheerful expression returned and he enquired; "And how is Safana these days?"

"Half-way to forgiving us I think!" Freya told him brightly. "And you know what I reckon will get her the other half of the way?"

She raised a perfect golden eyebrow as her grey eyes caught his green. Elf and werewolf pictured their insatiably covetous friend's face when they brought home their intended prize. The pair of them laughed aloud and said at the same time; "Dragon's horde!

"And what about your love life?" he asked her when they had stopped snickering. Freya chuckled and shook her head. The sunlight caught in her long blonde hair as she moved, giving the impression of dazzling gold.

"Complicated," she sighed.

"Not Skie? Not still?" he groaned. "C'mon Freya, even I know a lost cause when I see one."

"Coran you're my best mate, and I love you to bits," said Freya, clapping him on the back. "But you don't understand about Skie."

It was true, he didn't. Freya stood mesmerized by the elegant criminal dancer. The woman had enchanted her from the moment they met whereas Coran, who had lived longer and seen more of the world, saw a more disturbing side to Skie. She was manipulative, wilful and, in his opinion, a great deal more intelligent than anyone gave her credit for. In short, a politician in the making. Both women were still young and immature but Skie was growing up like a baby cobra. Even if she were capable of returning his friend's love, which she clearly wasn't, Coran thought it a dangerous match. Freya was simply not bright enough to handle her.

"Round up this war quickly and get back to the city. I've found exactly the woman for you!" Coran promised. Freya looked at him sceptically. "Her name is Nalia d'Arnise, she's the sole heir to a thumping great castle and her father is here on trade for at least another couple of weeks. Bit posh for my liking but a real dog-person, she has four."

"Well that rules her out," quipped Freya. "Werewolves don't keep pet dogs Coran, at least not unless they're perverts. Do I have to draw you a picture?"

"They live in the courtyard not the bedroom," said Coran. "Come on, just let me introduce you and you can decide for yourself. She's totally your type."

"You mean she has big tits and a fat arse?" asked Freya glibly.

"I mean she'll boss you around and insult you a lot," said Coran, who knew his friend better than anyone. "And keep you on a short leash. Maybe literally if you ask nicely." The Hero smiled and raised an eyebrow.

"Where is this castle?"

As the party drew nearer to the entrance of the cave, their conversations dialled down to nervous silence. The sudden cold when they entered was a marked contrast to the warmth of the sun outside. Only Viconia seemed to welcome it. The place already smelled dank and mouldy. Once the dead cultists on the level below started to rot it was certain to get worse. They were here to negotiate but all the adventurers, even the good ones, started quaffing their best potions in preparation. Just in case talking to her failed.

She was asleep again. Apparently at some point between them destroying the cult and returning, she had woken up. They could tell because there was a new pile of cattle bones on the cave floor and her horde had been meticulously reorganized. There was so much treasure it would need to be carried back to Baldur's Gate in a caravan. A huge pile of gold coins spread out like a mattress, interspersed with crowns, jewelled goblets, rings, tiaras and every colour of gemstone imaginable.

"Excuse me," ventured Rasaad. Now that he actually came face to snout with the beast, which had fangs as long as his hands, he was starting to reconsider the wisdom of this course. The dragon let out a rasping snore and slumbered on. He tried again a little louder. "I beg your pardon!"

The dragon opened one eye, and turned it lazily toward the monk. As he politely introduced himself and explained that they were with the Flaming Fist army and concerned about the dragon's possible culinary intentions toward the local populace, it yawned. Nevertheless it was not attacking them, which gave Rasaad hope that perhaps it could indeed be reasoned with. The creature stretched out, sending a cascade of pretty blue sapphires skittering down the pile. They rolled away with a musical tinkle to the edges of the cave. One landed at Viconia's feet. She smiled. Freya was gunning for an excuse to have the party fight the creature, and Viconia had spotted a way to make it happen.

Very softly, while everyone's attention was fixed on the dragon, the drow tapped her leader on the arm. She wanted full credit for what she was about to do. Viconia reached her clever elfin fingers down discretely, picked up the sapphire and held it up so that the dragon could see. Freya grinned broadly and winked. Then before any of the others noticed what she was doing, Viconia pointedly pocketed the treasure.

"THIEVES!" The dragon let out a roar of fury that shook the room.

"N- no!" cried Rasaad, "We have not come to steal from your horde, I swear it!"

"LIAR!" roared the dragon, opening her jaws wide in Rasaad's face. The bottom dropped from Viconia's stomach and for a moment she feared that her plan had backfired and the creature was going to eat him.

It never got the chance. Freya sprang toward the dragon, both swords flashing and sliced down hard inside the dragon's mouth. This made her even angrier but also, critically, prevented her from speaking and revealing what Viconia had done. As blood bubbled over the dragon's teeth and tongue, Freya grinned and smacked her on the muzzle provocatively.

"You picked the wrong god, dragon," Freya growled softly. "This is _my_ fucking temple."

Corwin and Rasaad exchanged a worried look. There was something about this place that seemed to make Freya imagine that she was not just a child of Bhaal, but Bhaal himself. It was disturbing to say the least, but this was not the time to dwell on it. Not when the dragon was rearing, flinging her wings and tail and sending the whole party flying backward into the walls of the cave. The horde fanned out too, peppering their faces with sharp little gemstones and coins hurled at speed. When they stood up each of them had dozens of little cuts all over their skin.

"Corwin, Coran; aim down the gullet when it opens its mouth. Viconia; defensive spells. Rasaad; with me!" Freya barked her orders as she jumped to her feet. As she ran back into the melee she was forced to jump the dragon's swinging tail. She avoided it successfully but the dragon swiped her armour with her claws, leaving deep grooves in the metal. Freya laughed and looked pointedly at the dragon's green hide. "Doesn't matter, I was planning on getting some new armour anyway!"

Rasaad attempted to punch the creature but its hide was far too thick for this to do more than irritate it. His real role was to distract the dragon from the archers. This fact dawned on him as he ducked and dodged the dragon's powerful limbs and fiery breath. Coran's arrows flew swiftly past his head, some of them damaging her a little where he could not. So the elf had out-performed him again. At least Arrow was not here to see this.

The Hero was on top form. Her first choice to end this would be for one of the archers to fire down the dragon's neck. If they could get one down when she opened her mouth but before she released her fire it'd choke her, but such a feat would require perfect timing and a good deal of luck. Freya's backup plan, which she had perfected battling wyverns, was to shave enough scales from the same patch of neck to allow a weapon to puncture her gullet. She wove around the dragon's defences, sometimes allowing it to strike her so that she could get into position. Coran was impressed. The Flaming Fist drills that Freya found so pointless had improved her combat technique. She had become less wild and more disciplined. Now the werewolf relied on tactics as well as her raw strength.

He took a speculative shot at the patch of scales that Freya was wearing down. It stuck for a moment but became wedged between two remaining scales and only the very head of the arrow penetrated. The dragon shook it loose furiously. Rasaad saw that Coran had made it bleed and felt incredibly foolish. All he could do was kick and chop at the creature, to no better effect than making his own hands sore.

A series of imagined scenes flashed unbidden in his mind's eye. Coran kissing Arrow, touching her… her turning pink under her freckles and smiling at the elf the way she used to smile at him. Before long, Rasaad's eyes were more on Coran than they were on the dragon. The result was inevitable.

Fire seared his lower half, and pain beyond imagining enveloped him. The world went black, he could not open his eyes. So intense was the agony in his lower half that he did not notice as he fell backward onto the ground. There was nothing left in the world except the burning, inescapable fire and his own screams ringing in his ears. He _did_ notice when the dragon raked her claws across his chest to finish the job.

Rasaad could not speak, but in his head he cried out the most impassioned prayer of his life: _let it end!_ He begged to Selune, Ilmater, even Shar if she was listening, to be allowed to lose consciousness… to be healed… to die…

However much she might want to, Viconia could not abandon the fight to tend to Rasaad. They were a man down and the dragon was still going strong. Corwin had given up on trying to fire into its mouth. Instead she was aiding Freya by releasing acid arrows at the patch of neck she was trying to descale. The erosion was helping to loosen the scales and the werewolf's swipes were sending green discs flying left and right.

Coran, for the first time, was becoming distracted by Rasaad. Despite everything, he was convinced that Arrow did care for him. Though the elf certainly wouldn't say no to another night in the ranger's arms, he did not want to torture the other man. His primary motive in letting the monk see his smiles and winks to her had been to provoke a little jealousy. He had thought that the threat of some competition might prompt Rasaad to action. Instead it seemed to have prompted him to get himself killed. The man's guts were spilling out through his burned away flesh. There was no way they could carry his body intact to the camp for revival. He would need Viconia's attention soon if he were to survive.

"Freya! Fall back!" he cried. This was easier said than done, as the werewolf had been using the dragon's size to the creature's disadvantage. It was harder for her to keep track of where Freya was when she stayed close. Coran had been her best friend and fighting partner for a long time though, and she trusted him. Inelegantly, and with more than one trip and crawl, the warrior managed to extricate herself from the melee.

Coran chose an arrow of detonation. He hardly ever carried these as they could too easily be mistaken for regular arrows, and he had heard stories of them blowing up in the quiver. When he received Freya's message, however, he had risked stealing some for this fight. He let it fly into the gap in the neck scales that Freya had created.

There was a deafening bang and a wave of hot air surged through the cavern. This was accompanied by hot, sticky blood and pieces of scale which embedded themselves into the party's skin like splinters. For a moment the dragon seemed to hang there in an expression of frozen surprise. Then, very slowly, her head toppled from her ruined neck.

Ignoring her own wounds, Viconia skidded to her knees by Rasaad's side and chanted the strongest healing spells she knew over his wound. Freya uncorked an extra-potency healing potion in a hexagonal bottle that she had been saving for herself and tipped it down his throat. Even these efforts would not have been enough to save the monk an hour before. Yet the slaughter of such a powerful enemy and the cunning with which Viconia had brought the fight about, had earned her a reward from the Nightsinger. She felt Shar's power growing within her the instant the dragon fell.

Rasaad too was invigorated by the creature's death. It had indeed been a servant of Cyric, and Selune's blessing shone upon her monk for his hand in putting a stop to it. He felt stronger even as the blood fled his body. Soon he found himself sufficiently recovered that he could watch, drifting in and out of consciousness, as Freya took Sarevok's sword and began to slice away the dragon's flank. Corwin, aided by one of the potions of speed that Coran had been using for his horse, sprinted back to the camp to get help for Rasaad and carts for the treasure.

Arrow, who had been watching anxiously for their return, knew that something was wrong as soon as the caravan appeared in the distance. Rasaad was a fast walker and always strode ahead of the rest of the party. She blanched and ran out of camp toward them, to find him laying on a small cart with the dragon skin spread out beside him. Despite all of the healing potions and spells that could be spared, the monk was not in a good way. The burns down his legs were no longer life-threatening but they looked raw and painful and would leave permanent scars. So too would the slash over his chest where the dragon had tried to rip him open. The tattooed eyes of Selune had been permanently blinded. He was breathing lightly but his eyes were closed.

She hunkered next to him in the cart and started to cry, as Viconia slunk away with a revolted look. Rasaad's eyes opened blearily. He looked at her tear streaked face.

"I feared you no longer cared," he said quietly.

Arrow tried to speak but the words would not come. Instead a great heaving sob escaped her lungs.

"No, no, no. Please don't cry," he soothed, pulling her down close to his tattooed chest and stroking her hair, but Arrow would not be comforted. She cried until her lungs ached. Rasaad clung to her tighter as her tears rolled down his skin, and the feelings welling up inside him threatened to overwhelm him. "Everything is alright. I am here."

Acting on impulse, he kissed the top of Arrow's head. The cart bumped as the horse pulling it got distracted by a patch of thistles. One of the soldiers smacked its hide and the disgruntled animal cantered forward suddenly making the cart jolt more. Rasaad winced in pain.

"I beg you not to believe that I want Dorn gone because I care for Viconia's safety more than yours," he managed weakly. "The fear that something bad might happen to you grips me so hard that I barely sleep. When they told me you would have to go into the crusader camp I-"

"I understand why you think taking Dorn is the wrong thing to do, it probably is," Arrow sobbed. "But I'm terrified Rasaad! I'm surrounded by enemies and they're all stronger than me. I cannot run, I cannot hide. At least… at least with Dorn on my side I might be able to fight."

Tears leaked out of the corner of Rasaad's eyes and he buried his face into her hair.

"It should be _me_ at your side," he replied painfully.

Safana's response when the shimmering treasure carts came rumbling into camp was exactly as her friends had predicted. They were forgiven, so much so that Safana began planning excitedly where the three of them would go travelling (stopping at every luxury inn on the way) when the war was over. She spread herself out on one of the carts, making a gold-angel with her arms and legs, then pulled Coran down on top of her.

"Disgusting," muttered Corwin.

If Freya was expecting a similar reaction from her own lover, she was about to be disappointed. Skie ran out to meet them, Bence hot on her heels, and smacked Freya in the face, hard.

"The hell was that for?" yelped Freya.

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TALK TO THE DRAGON NOT FIGHT IT" screamed Skie. Her hair was coming loose from her Fist-style bun and her face was scarlet with fury. "YOU DUMB BITCH!"

"Skie, you can't call female werewolves 'bitch'," Freya said, backing away, her hands raised placatingly. "And it attacked us first. I didn't know you had such a soft spot for evil dragons!"

"The dragon can go to the hells and stay there for all I care, but you could have died!" Skie shrieked. "Corwin, how could you let her?"

"Might I remind you, 'Fist Goldbuckler,' that we are both your superior officers?" snapped Corwin, who did not appreciate being spoken to like that.

"You should have come with us Skie," grinned Freya.

"Bence refused to let me out of camp!" snapped Skie, shrugging his hand from her arm furiously.

"That's Corporal Duncan, Fist!" Corwin retorted. She was starting to look almost as angry as Skie was.

"Men will never give a lady her due," sighed Safana sympathetically, sitting up in the cart. She was covered from head to toe in the emeralds Coran had just slain a dragon to earn. "I recommend taking first and asking permission later, if you must ask permission at all." By way of demonstration she plucked a particularly large diamond out of Coran's hand, kissed it teasingly, and tucked it into her cleavage.

"For the love of the gods don't encourage her!" cried Corwin in exasperation. "Listen recruit you're a Flaming Fist now. You do as your commander tells you and you do it without complaint. You definitely don't complain in front of him. Got it?"

"Freya didn't start at the bottom," Skie grumbled. "Nobody commands her!"

"I do," said Corwin.

"Yeah right," sneered Skie. "Freya could break your neck with her thumb and forefinger."

Captain Corwin was now the angriest that Freya had ever seen her. Even Bence was backing away from his enraged commander. She rounded on the werewolf who swallowed with nerves and arousal. Coran was right, she loved a dominant woman. The soldiers, who had limited entertainment on these long marches were gathering around to watch. Some were even standing on crates for a better view.

"Sergeant Candlekeep?" Corwin barked. The camp held their breaths.

"Sir!"

"Lick my boots."

" _Sir?"_

"You heard me."

Freya looked around her in alarm. It was a direct order from her Captain and as the silence dragged on it became very clear that Corwin wasn't joking. This was it then. Time to show whether she really was a Flaming Fist officer or just pretending to be one. She hovered uncertainly. The Captain was taking an enormous gamble. If the Hero of Baldur's Gate followed the order it would finally and definitively remove the ambiguity about which of them was really in charge. But if Freya refused it would completely undermine Corwin's authority, not just over her but over Skie and the entire army.

There was no real option. Without the Flaming Fist's support, Freya would be at Irenicus' mercy. She crouched down, then moved to her hands and knees, face burning with humiliation and licked the least muddy spot on the Captain's boots. It was still pretty filthy and she gagged a little.

The camp watched in total silence. Skie looked like she would quite like to kill Corwin, while Rasaad and Coran both flinched and turned away. Arrow's party watched on in mildly disgusted interest, while Dynaheir smirked slightly and Safana grinned openly. Only Edwin and the two drow were completely unfazed by the little ritual. Where they came from forcing someone to lick your boots was a standard way to assert dominance. Indeed, in Viconia's city it was considered impolite not to give your superior's boot a courtesy clean with your tongue every once in a while.

Glint and Skie were standing opposite each other and their eyes met over Freya's head. Slowly, Skie reached into her pocket, pulled out the drugged cookie that Glint had tried to give to Freya and crushed it in her hand. All the colour drained from Glint's face as he turned to run.

"Arrest the gnome!" called Skie suddenly, distracting everyone from Freya and Corwin's boots. "He's the spy!"


	26. Perspectives

_Skie had promised Mizhena she'd find her lost amulet and she hadn't forgotten. She'd had to give Bence the slip again to do it, and she'd been attacked by wolves along the way. Still, it was worth it to see the woman's ecstatic face when she brought the amulet back to the healer's tent._

_When she'd arrived it was rather crowded. The Hero's party were crammed into the tent waiting for two of their companions to be revived. They had been on a proper dungeon crawl (which Skie was forbidden from joining of course) and come back carrying two dead wizards. The survivors did not seem particularly concerned about their deceased comrades, and were idling round the tent chatting while they waited for Glint and M'Khiin to do their work._

" _Thank you Lady Silvershield," Mizhena had said as Skie pressed the amulet into her hand. "This amulet is very special to me. When I was born, my parents thought me a boy and raised me as such. In time, we all came to understand that I was truly a woman. My parents gave me this as a symbol that they accepted me for who I am." She paused and added resentfully; "Not everybody is as understanding."_

_Mizhena had glared pointedly at an oblivious Freya. An earlier misunderstanding, which had gone completely over the Hero's furry head, had led Mizhena to mistakenly believe that the other woman was mocking her condition. Skie wanted to tell her that Freya was just piss-ignorant rather than spiteful, but that hardly seemed like the most compelling defence._

_"I understand Mizhena, it makes perfect sense to me! Why would anybody want to be a man?" asked Freya cheerfully. As usual she displayed all the tact and sensitivity of a concrete brick. Rasaad raised an eyebrow at her and she shrugged. "You own a mirror Rasaad! You know you belong to an aesthetically challenged gender. I didn't mean any offense."_

" _An aesthetically challenged gender?" spluttered Rasaad. While technically vanity was frowned upon by the Sun Soul monks, in practise it was impossible to avoid to some extent. Their entire lives, after all, hinged around honing their bodies through physical activity._

_"Could be worse. Could belong to an aesthetically challenged species," chipped in M'Khiin glumly, as she cleaned Edwin's mud splattered body in preparation for revival._

_Glint paused from restoring Baeloth and looked up at the werewolf. It was a long way up._

_"We have very different perspectives on the world you and I," he observed pleasantly._

_Freya had grinned down at him. "We do at that," she agreed._

* * *

Glint and Freya's perspectives were reversed now. The werewolf was staring up at him grimly as his limp feet swung back and forth above her head. With his bright blue hair and beard he resembled a sombre pinata. Skie was shaking with tears, and the werewolf put an arm about her, though she did not take her eyes off the dead gnome. The young thief had known what turning him in would mean, but father had never let her see anything as gruesome as a public execution. She'd expected something akin to a death in battle. Not like this.

Arrow and Rasaad had argued against it of course, but Captain Corwin was not hugely interested in their opinion. The soldiers had drawn their swords when the ranger tried to intervene, and she had no option but to watch helplessly as they dragged Glint weeping and pleading to the trees. She did not see them do it, but she heard it from a distance. It was far worse than any killing she had witnessed in combat. Tucked away in the healer's tent, which now hosted one less healer, the monk stroked her hair comfortingly as she lay pale and motionless on his chest. Her eyes were wide open and staring at nothing.

"His poor mother," she said in a hollow voice. "All he wanted was to give the ordinary people a better life."

"He was working for Irenicus," Rasaad said gently. "You know what that man is. Glint may not have been evil himself but he served evil. That was the choice he made and he has paid the price for it."

"Irenicus tricked him, I'm sure of it," said Arrow. "The Flaming Fist are corrupt and oppress anyone who disagrees with the Grand Dukes. The whole city saw how easily Irenicus could have defeated them on the docks if Freya hadn't been there. I bet he wanted to believe that Irenicus was on the rebels' side and I don't blame him. He was trying to do the right thing for the ordinary people, and they hanged him for it!"

Rasaad stopped stroking her hair and sat bolt upright in alarm. He gripped both her shoulders tightly and fixed his intense, dark eyes on her own.

"Arrow please!" Rasaad cried. "I know you are upset but choose your words with more care. They had no choice but to hang him, he was spying for Irenicus, and both our gods command that we obey all just authority."

"This is not just authority!" Arrow argued. "I'm sorry Rasaad, it isn't!"

"There's nothing we can do," the monk insisted. "He is dead, it is done and it was done for the best. Arrow I beg you not to say such things. I could not bear it if you were to join him in the tree."

"I thought you said my loving sister would never do such a thing?" Arrow snapped sarcastically.

"If she thought you were a threat to the nobility she might," said Rasaad. "I underestimated how infatuated with Skie she is."

Arrow nodded and settled back down onto the monk's chest, but now her mind was turning over the cause that Glint had died for. Like all Ilmatari, she was dedicated to helping the poor, but what if with all the unrest there really was a chance for the poor to help themselves? If they could vote, they could choose leaders who would not leave them to starve in squalor. What could be achieved by Grand Dukes whose goals were to lead their people to dignified self-sufficient lives, rather than just lining their own pockets?

"Someone should tell his mother before she hears it from the town crier," Arrow said quietly. Rasaad nodded in agreement. "I… I can't write. Not properly, not well enough for this. Will you help me?"

The mood was sombre around the tree. Glint's drugged cookies had been concrete proof of the gnome's guilt and nobody but the Ilmatari and her monk had questioned what had to happen next. Yet the cleric had been well liked in the camp, having healed many of the wounds sustained on the march, and there was a general feeling of wishing it had been someone else.

Corwin's reaction was predictable, she had considered Glint a threat to the Grand Dukes even without bringing Irenicus into the mix. It was she who had given the order to hang him, supported by Freya. For her part, the Hero was relieved that the spy had been caught. Imoen watched him choke and struggle on the end of his rope with an uncharacteristically vindictive pleasure. The treacherous cleric had not only conspired with Irenicus against the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn (enough to earn her mortal enmity by itself) but it was now clear that his medicinal patches had been the cause of her agonizing headaches.

Freya's party had followed Glint into the wood to witness the final event, Arrow's had not. Dynaheir felt that it would not be good for Minsc to see something like that, and Minsc had said it would upset Boo. Jaheira had kept a discrete eye on Arrow to make sure that she did nothing to intervene in the execution. Given the Fist's current mood, that might see her hanging too. Dorn had also remained behind. Though of a bloodthirsty disposition, the half-orc had no interest in executions, unless the criminal had an opportunity to fight back, and even then he would rather be in the fight than watch it.

There was only the lightest of breezes and Glint swung back and forth with a slow creak. Crows were settling in the neighbouring trees eyeing the dead man with interest. They shuffled eagerly and ruffled their feathers in anticipation of the humans going away so that they could begin their feast. Viconia watched with indifference and Edwin merely looked bored, but Baeloth had become fidgety and was looking from officer to officer with an anxious expression.

"You do realize that it is only a matter of time before that's us up there?" he whispered to Viconia in drow.

" _You_ perhaps," she replied coolly in their mother tongue. "I am the Chosen of all Faiths. The gods will not permit this worthless rabble to execute _me._ And neither will Freya."

"Do you set that much store by her oath to protect you?" sneered Baeloth.

"Yes," Viconia said, then paused. "Though perhaps it is time to exercise other means of ensuring her loyalty, just to be on the safe side. It should provide me with some entertainment too. What she lacks in brains she certainly makes up for in more physical attributes."

Freya's party turned their evil eyes to their leader as Skie flinched and pulled away from the Hero's breast plate. Freya's dragon scale armour had not yet been made, though she had been assured that there was a forge and a skilled smith in Bridgefort. The front of her existing armour had been badly ripped by the dragon and the slashed, jagged metal had cut Skie's face. A thin oozing of blood mingled with her tears and dropped onto the ground beneath Glint's dangling feet.

Baeloth was not the only one who feared one day sharing this fate. Coran and Safana were ever-aware of what awaited thieves in the city who got caught. They were holding hands. Time to calm down coupled with Coran's new-found dragon wealth had earned him her complete forgiveness. They were watching Glint's face, which was now as blue as his beard, their own faces pale.

"Come back to Baldur's Gate with me Saffy," Coran said very quietly into her ear. "Irenicus' agent has been caught. There's no more reason for you to risk your neck in a war. I miss you. Freya can take care of herself now."

Safana nodded silently. She was more than agreeable to protecting the treasure carts on their perilous journey back to the city. More than that, she had missed Coran too. Voghiln was sloppy and the novelty of his love sonnets had already worn off. The parties they could go to! The clothes she could buy! Yes, this haul would keep the pair of them in hedonistic paradise for many years to come. Time to go home and enjoy it.

The adventurers and soldiers began to peel away in groups of two or three, talking amongst themselves. Skie meandered away from Freya and wandered over to Bence. The werewolf sighed resignedly and went to check on Imoen. Glint had been caught a little too late. His pint-sized corpse dangling sadly in the wood did not change the fact that Irenicus could penetrate her mind at a distance now, and his talk of 'blasting holes' made it sound like he might have done some permanent damage.

"You ok Imoen?" Freya asked, gesturing at her head. "Do you remember the Irenicus dreams?"

"No," frowned Imoen. "But I know Glint's patches changed something. It was like the pressure built up and up behind my eyes, then burst suddenly. Just like popping a huge painful pimple, but in my brain y'know?"

"Er… thanks for that mental image Imoen," frowned Freya. "So I've been wondering: if you're made up of bits of our souls does that mean you can read our minds? What am I thinking about right now?"

"Caelar Argent's cleavage?" Imoen hazarded. Freya turned pale and her hand flew to her golden head in alarm, as if trying to block Imoen's mind-rays.

"I don't like that! You stop that right now!" she cried. Imoen laughed.

"No, I can't read your mind Freya, it was an educated guess," the pink-haired girl grinned, and stood on tiptoe to muss Freya's golden hair. "I mean with you it was going to be either women, digging holes or chasing squirrels. There's not a huge amount going on in there."

"I haven't dug a hole since I was a puppy!" Freya retorted.

"Remember when you stole that ham from old Winthrope and buried it?" Imoen grinned. A shadow fell across her face. "And then they blamed me for it."

"I felt so guilty I dug it up and tried to put it back," sighed Freya, shaking her head. "It was all gnawed and covered in mud."

"I notice you don't deny the chasing squirrels part," Imoen said slyly.

"Squirrels are sneaky little bastards that deserve to be chased," Freya retorted. "Look at those bushy tails and twitchy little squirrel-hands and tell me it isn't true."

Back in camp Edwin and Baeloth returned to the healer's tent to gather their remaining belongings. Both spellcasters were fully restored, though the replacement for Edwin's splendid Thayan robes was a mere dressing-gown of fire resistance. There were better available in the Quartermaster's stock, but they were not red, and Edwin refused to be seen dead in green (like some grubby little hippy).

The only other occupant was Rasaad, who was sufficiently healed to sit up. He was musing to Arrow about the symbolic significance of the eyes of Selune on his chest, now that they had been scratched out by the dragon. The ranger, secretly, was not sorry to see them gone. If she and Rasaad were to ever actually sleep together, having Selune's eyes glaring disapprovingly at her as she bedded one of her monks would have been a little off-putting. She was content to listen to Rasaad's ramblings, since it gave her an excuse to gaze at his bare muscular chest. It was a welcome distraction from thinking about Glint.

The monk seemed convinced that his goddess was sending him a message, but couldn't seem to decide what it was. Was she telling him that he was failing her as a follower? Or perhaps that he was following her the wrong way, and should take a different, less stringent path. Arrow encouraged him in the latter opinion, though she was highly biased. Truthfully, she felt that if the blinded eyes really had a lesson to teach, it was that pissing off dragons is a bad idea. Still, she smiled and nodded and every so often applied healing balm to his scorched, scarred legs.

"Enough of this revolting display," sneered Edwin disdainfully. He and Baeloth seized their things and returned to Viconia who was waiting for them at the tent flap. Her red eyes were watching Arrow trace the scar on Rasaad's chest on the transparent pretext of making some observation about it. Idiot male. He must be as blind as Selune's eyes.

"Unctuous do-gooders," she agreed with Edwin, spitefully.

"I really don't see your problem. They seem fine to me," Baeloth remarked benignly. Viconia and Edwin turned on him. Baeloth shrugged and said mildly "They'd put up a decent fight, die when they're supposed to and cause me no trouble. I'd purchase them for the Black Pits any day."

They broke off their conversation because Freya was striding purposefully toward them. As she walked she took a series of long gulps from her flask. She was past pretending that the skin contained water, and had moved on from beer to wine. This was something of a blessing to Edwin, since the wizard had a refined palette and the werewolf had decided that his new job was to taste everything she ate and drank. There would be no more near misses like the spiked cookies.

"How are you two feeling?" Freya asked the two wizards. "Better?"

"My state is superior to that of the slippery, seditious subversive," said Baeloth.

"Translation?" demanded Freya.

"Better than the gnome," explained Viconia with a smirk. Freya shook her head impatiently. She was in no mood for gallows humour.

"Alright Baeloth," Freya said, dropping herself down heavily beside him. "Tell me what you know about Irenicus. Absent the annoying avalanche of alliteration if you don't mind."

"I don't know a great deal I'm afraid," wheedled the drow. "He just showed up in the Black Pits one day with a seemingly bottomless wallet demanding to inspect the Bhaalspawn. I didn't think much of it. Eric was a popular pit fighter and we put a lot of effort into advertising him. Irenicus was by no means the only one to take an interest."

"But you must have talked," pressed Freya.

"Very little," admitted Baeloth. "I got the distinct impression that Irenicus finds dealing with drow distasteful."

"A common attitude among _darthiir_ from what I understand?" Freya asked. Viconia nodded with a quizzical look. "I can smell him," the werewolf explained, feeling more confident to share this information now that the spy had been disposed of. "He smells weird, there's something very off about him, but there's definitely a whiff of elf in the mix."

"Interesting. That would explain why he made an offer to Safana and Glint but not to me," mused Viconia, sucking her teeth. Baeloth shrugged disarmingly. Viconia took a lock of her hair, twirling it thoughtfully and staring down her fellow drow. "What exactly did he want with Eric?"

"Truly I don't know!" answered Baeloth, looking increasingly edgy. "Whatever it was, the boy's addiction to numbing potions was getting in the way. He tried to bait him, anger him. I think he was trying to coax out more of the Bhaal essence but since Eric was drinking numbing potions he could not feel anger properly. Nor anything else."

There was a pause, then Baeloth burst out suddenly; "Eric got worse under his influence I know that much. I was petrified of them both by the end and I'm glad at least one of them is dead!"

Bence's call to drill blasted out across the camp. The werewolf swore violently and jumped to her feet to join the other Flaming Fist officers. Skie was right, drills were muddy and tedious. Practising the same sword strokes over and over, when she could kick her opponent's blade right out of their hand if she chose to. The stench of the other soldiers was also becoming a strain on her overly-sensitive nose. Personal hygiene had its limits in a situation like this, but some of the officers were making more of an effort than others.

"You see?" Baeloth fretted, his pretty face a picture of anxiety. "She's one of them. I'm telling you we're not safe here, any of us! Our leader is so petrified of Corwin she publicly licked her boots."

"That must have been hard for the Hero of Baldur's Gate," sneered Edwin. "Perhaps she is not so strong as we had supposed."

To both men's surprise Viconia let out a little chuckle. Her red eyes glinted with mischief, and she leaned forward toward them, showing a great deal of cleavage as she did so.

"Care to share the joke?" demanded Edwin.

"Certainly," Viconia replied smugly. "While you were watching her tongue, I was watching her eyes. I don't think it was as hard for her as you suppose. Though were she a man, 'it' might have been hard."

The two men paused for a moment as they struggled to catch her meaning. Then Baeloth's beetle-like eyes twinkled with amusement. He looked at poor Edwin, who was mumbling into his beard, unwilling to admit that he did not know what Viconia meant. Baeloth's eyes trailed over Edwin's haughty face and long, clever fingers. He was growing quite partial to the wizard's company and was starting to think that the three of them might do better to slip away quietly together before this war became too dangerous.

"Are you proposing that the posturing Puppy of Baldur's Gate possesses a partiality for powerfully prepotent partners?" suggested Baeloth, raising a pure white eyebrow curiously.

"A partiality, a predilection, penchant, propensity, proneness, proclivity… one might say even a preference if one wished to be pointlessly prolific with one's pronouncements," agreed Viconia, who thus far had refrained from mocking Baeloth's mode of speech but could resist it no longer. "It seems to me that there are few things the Bitch of Baldur's Gate likes better than being another woman's bitch."

"That would explain a lot," mused Edwin. "It has struck me as peculiar the way she allows Skie sleep in Bence's tent and permits Safana and Corwin to openly spit on her, but still gives them whatever they want. And all this despite being the strongest, wealthiest person in the city. I had put it down to her inferior canine brain."

"Ah," Viconia purred triumphantly, "But have you ever once seen her let a male disrespect her? She does not give an inch to the inferior sex."

"A perceptive point, but is it pertinent to our current predicament?" pondered Baeloth.

"Oh yes," smiled Viconia. "I consider myself to be something of an expert in this department. Trust me, by the time I'm done with her, nothing Corwin can do or say will persuade her to betray me… and by extension, my males."

Freya was, indeed, partial to being treated poorly by the women in her life and for this reason readily accepted Corwin's apology when it was unexpectedly offered. The Captain even brought Freya her evening stew along with her own when she saw that the werewolf was not eating. This loss of appetite actually had little to do with the boot-licking incident, and more to do with the smell of the food. Fresh ingredients were in increasingly short supply this far into the march and the Quartermaster had been 'improvising.' Nobody felt like asking what this meant. Some horrors were best left undiscovered.

"I had to do it," said Corwin stiffly. "Skie challenged me in front of the entire camp. There would have been no point punishing her. They needed to know that you're not their leader. I am."

"I understand," Freya replied neutrally. "Really, I do. I'm a pack animal, remember? These people need to know who their Alpha is or there'll be chaos. That's why I volunteered to join the Fist in the first place. It wasn't because of how much I love Bence's endless fucking drills."

"Those drills are improving you Freya, your power in combat is growing by the day. You might not have noticed it but everyone else has," Corwin said sharply. "That and dragon scale armour? At this rate the next time you meet Irenicus you'll be able to do more than just scratch him."

"That's the idea," growled Freya. Without the Fist's backing she still didn't fancy her chances against the evil wizard. Yet the odds were slowly shifting in her favour. They had changed from _certain_ to merely _probable_ defeat.

"I've been thinking about what will happen when we reach Dragonspear," said Corwin. "I've never been part of a coalition before. Alliances can bring strength." She shot Freya a significant look. "As long as everyone can get along."

"I never wanted us to feud Corwin," replied Freya, folding her arms.

Corwin gave the Hero a painful look. The truth was that she no longer wanted to be enemies either. Despite her better judgement the Bitch of Baldur's Gate was growing on her. The fact that she was the most attractive person that she had ever set eyes on didn't hurt. That challenging cock-sure grin of hers was almost as charming as it was annoying. Only, if she was to sincerely forgive the idiot woman and move on as… friends… Freya needed to understand what it was that she was forgiving her for.

"After that business with the girdle…" Corwin began hesitantly. Freya, who had been facing determinedly forward, swung around so that the two of them were face to face. Then the Captain took a deep breath and pressed on resolutely. "When you knocked me out in that Inn so that you could steal my clothes and impersonate me…"

"Captain with respect, all we did was borrow your uniform. It wasn't even personal, we were being blackmailed," Freya growled impatiently. "And all they did was unofficially demote you for a few days. It wasn't that big a deal and it was months ago. You need to let it go."

"Not a big deal?" Corwin hissed under her breath.

The soldiers did not need to see their superior officers fighting among themselves. She led Freya into her tent where they could talk in private, and clipped her around the jaw.

"I drank an ale that creep Eldoth handed to me and it knocked me out. Then I woke up in a strange room in my underwear. Nobody told me _why_ until hours later! What do you think I thought had happened to me Freya? What would you think?" Corwin asked.

Freya turned pale. She ran her fingers through her golden hair in a distressed sort of way. She opened and shut her mouth like a guppy. She made to hug Corwin. She thought the better of it.

"I'm sorry," she finally managed. Freya had uttered those words at least a dozen times since the incident, but this was the first time Corwin believed that she really meant it.

"You think licking my boots was humiliating?" the Captain went on stiffly. There were angry tears welling up in her eyes but she refused to let them fall. "I had to wrap myself in the bedsheets, beg the innkeeper for some spare clothes and report what had happened to the Fist. I was crying in front of my own fucking officers! What a good joke they all thought it was when they found out it was just you, Coran and that worthless bimbo Safana pinching my uniform so you could go on a jolly in the Ducal Palace!"

"I'm sorry Corwin, I'm really sorry," Freya pleaded. "I didn't think."

"You never do Freya! That's the problem!" Corwin groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. She stayed like that in silence for a few moments, regaining her composure. When she looked up the werewolf was wiping her eyes on the edge of her bedroll. "So now _you're_ going to cry?" she demanded impatiently. "Look, I'm telling you this because I want us to move on. We need to move on if we're going to defeat Caelar."

Freya nodded, but couldn't meet her eye. A cold, nauseous feeling settled in her stomach. Corwin was relieved to see some evidence that the Hero of Baldur's Gate was capable of feeling shame. She certainly deserved to. She was waiting for Corwin to say something, but her Captain was not about to let her off the hook so easily.

"What's your first name?" Freya asked finally. Corwin blinked. Of all the things she'd thought Freya might say to break the silence, that was not one of them.

"You seriously don't know?" asked Corwin, acidly.

"You never told me, and I've never heard anyone use it," said Freya. "You use my first name."

"Only out of habit. I ought to call you Sergeant Candlekeep, but I keep forgetting." Corwin replied. She met Freya's sceptical grey eyes and relented a little. "Schael. My name is Schael."

"Schael," repeated Freya, with a half-smile. "It suits you."

"You never, ever, ever use it in public!" the Captain snapped.

"No Sir."

There was another pause while she tried to work out whether or not the werewolf was making fun of her. At length she decided that she wasn't, and poured the two of them a small drink from her own private stock. It was a lot better than the caustic red liquid Freya had been quaffing from her private flask and they drank together in silence for a while.

"I've let other people into my life since Rohma was born," Schael admitted. "But they… I don't want to talk about them. Father says you only need to win one to win the game, but I'm tired of playing games." She looked sideways at the werewolf, who was wearing a grim expression. It made her seem strangely older. "I suppose you and your friend Coran never tire of games?"

"Coran doesn't, certainly," agreed Freya emphatically. She paused. After the way the Captain had detested her all this time she was not sure she wanted to expose her weaknesses to her. On the other hand Corwin had shown some vulnerability and if they were going to get past their differences perhaps she ought to give something back. "As for me, games are all I've got."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Corwin.

"I'm not Coran. I want a home, a wife, kids but… it isn't going to happen."

"Why not?" Corwin frowned.

"Is that a serious question?" laughed Freya bitterly. "I'm not a man for starters, that rules out the overwhelming majority of women. Skie and her noblewoman friends might jump into bed with me for a curiosity fuck, or something to brag to their boyfriends about but marriage is different. Then add to that I'm a Bhaalspawn _and_ a werewolf. Those Selunite monks were right about one thing. No woman worth a damn is ever going to want a serious relationship with me."

"Freya…"

"And I don't blame them," Freya added with crushing finality.

"You are pathetic Freya!" snapped Corwin suddenly. "Mooning around after Skie and feeling sorry for yourself, instead of even trying to have a real relationship! Has it occurred to you that the reason nobody wants you isn't because you're a werewolf, or a Bhaalspawn or because you like women but because you are a infantile, arrogant arsehole?"

 _Well, that was a mistake_ , Freya thought. She had shown the officer the tiniest chink in her armour, and the other woman had gone straight in there with a dagger. Freya opened her mouth to reply, but couldn't seem to summon the anger needed to respond. Instead she seemed to deflate. It felt to Corwin that she had never seen a more defeated person.

"Yeah," Freya shrugged. "Yeah. Pathetic."

"Freya?" frowned Corwin.

"I am sorry about that business with the girdle," Freya repeated in a more formal tone, getting to her feet and saluting. "And I'm sorry for everything else too. Goodnight. Sir."

She left the tent. Schael watched her leave with mixed feelings. The woman's childishness and irresponsibility could be put down to immaturity, but the stupidity she would never grow out of. Yet she was so pretty, and the Captain had a long and peppered history of falling prey to beauty.

Freya found Rasaad in the sick tent. She felt bad about asking him to meditate with her when he was clearly in pain, and worse about tearing him away from Arrow when the two of them seemed to be finally getting on. Yet full moon was approaching and with it her anxiety mounted. She had wanted him… _needed_ him… to join the march to Dragonspear for a reason. He had controlled the werewolf in the Iron Throne building without hurting him. If she lost control, she needed him to do the same for her until the moon set and the wolf retreated. It was for everybody's safety, including her own.

"You meditate together?" Arrow had asked, with a suspicious scowl at Freya.

"Does that bother you?" the werewolf asked, cocking her stunning golden head to one side. The honest answer to this was _yes._ Freya was widely held to be the most beautiful woman in Baldur's Gate, if not the whole of Faerun. She may not be attracted to Rasaad, but that was no guarantee that he was not attracted to her.

As it happened, he wasn't, at least not anymore. Like almost everybody, he had been when they had first met. Yet the thing about charisma, especially magically enhanced charisma, was that it was all about _impressions._ The closer to a person one got, the less effective it became. With her wolfish sharp eyes and apparent wit, Freya gave strangers the impression of being intelligent but nobody who had spent time with her would describe her as such. Likewise, Rasaad was finding her sex appeal diminish over time to a level that was surprisingly ordinary.

"Bother me? Why should it bother me?" retorted Arrow stiffly.

"It shouldn't," said Freya. There was a long silence. At length the werewolf sighed. "You don't like me much do you?"

"I wouldn't dare say that," snapped Arrow sarcastically. "Glint didn't like you and look what happened to him." Feeling it best to separate the two of them before Arrow said anything else provocative, Rasaad got awkwardly to his feet and limped out of the tent.

Normally Freya would chain herself up and take herself far away from people to transform. The Ducal Palace had been challenging with all those people nearby, but it was relatively safe. Silvershield had installed a concrete post in the floor to attach her chains to and all the staff knew to stay well-clear. A camp full of soldiers was different. Supposing some of the stupider kids decided to approach her for a dare? Or that blasted bard Jaheira brought to the camp wandered into her vicinity in a drunken stupor? Yet if she took herself away into the wood she'd be easy prey for Irenicus. Her howling would make locating her a simple matter.

"Meditating is far more effective with you than it was with Minsc," remarked Freya truthfully. "Boo was a mellowing influence, his owner not so much. I find your example of calm and self-restraint helps me a great deal."

"I think you exaggerate my humble contributions," replied Rasaad modestly. "But I thank you nonetheless."

They walked past Edwin and the two drow who were still in deep discussion about something. When they saw the werewolf approaching, Viconia winked at them and sidled over.

"Off to meditate on the Moon Maiden again?" she purred, running a finger over Freya's unresisting chest. "You should join me in the shadows instead. I can show you something darker. Self-restraint has nothing on being restrained by me."

The drow smirked and slipped back to her males, leaving Freya swallowing and very un-calm indeed. Rasaad sighed sympathetically. He had been fending off these attacks for months, but his faith had held strong and he was confident that Freya's would do the same.

"Does she pull this crap on you too?" asked Freya, tugging her collar.

"Daily," sighed Rasaad wearily.

"And you've not become a Sharran yet?" she asked, impressed.

"No," he answered firmly. Freya saluted him. His lips thinned disapprovingly. "You cannot mean to embrace Shar?"

"Shar? Nah," Freya replied. "But I'd 'embrace' her priestess given half a chance."

Not for the first time with Freya, the monk found a laugh escaping him when he knew it really shouldn't. "Why don't you say that to her?" Rasaad teased.

"Come on Rasaad," winked Freya. "I might take on dragons but even I have _some_ sense of self-preservation!"

They settled cross-legged at the edge of the treeline, where the soldiers were still in sight but the sound of their bustle less intrusive. The moon rose, pale and silver, over the tent silhouettes. Rasaad took a deep breath of cool, clean air, ignoring the midges gathering around his face. The sky was sprinkled with brilliant shining stars and he watched them in contented silence, imagining pictures in them as he did with Arrow's freckles. Freya envied him his dulled human-ears. Unlike her, he could enjoy the evening without hearing the faint groaning creak of swinging rope.


	27. Pain

Arrow was not the only woman to take envious note of Rasaad's meditating with Freya. Viconia, who never tired of making the monk blush, suggested loudly that he might be trying to convert her as the two of them returned from their evening meditations. Since she was already a Selunite, it was clear that she did not mean religious conversion. He was so used to her attempts to wind him up, however, that he no longer took the bait. Ignoring the drow, he exchanged the sign of Selune with Freya and hobbled painfully back toward his tent.

Freya was still shaken from her conversation with Corwin and her meditations had not helped. A little more to drink with Safana and Viconia couldn't hurt. She'd had a fair bit already that evening and as she took more heavy gulps of wine from her private hip flask, a pleasant feeling of fuzzy numbness settled over her.

"If he does want to bang her, he's doomed to disappointment. Freya literally can't have sex with a man," said Safana acidly. "You see her pussy is where she keeps her brains. If poor Rasaad shoved his dick up there, he'd be giving her a lobotomy."

Freya stuck out her tongue childishly and sat down beside them. If they'd returned to this kind of banter, then Safana really had forgiven her for her affair with female-Coran. The thief was looking extremely glamorous and pleased with herself. She was waiting for the Flaming Fist to finish covering the treasure carts and drawing lots for which lucky soldiers would get to escort them back to the city. She herself was making no effort to hide the jewels she had gathered, at least not yet. Already she had picked the opals and garnets from her jewellery and replaced them with emeralds. She had nothing on her large enough to mount the ruby Heart of the Basilisk but she was taking it out frequently so she could hold it to her neck.

"To be fair, if Freya were to get a lobotomy who would notice the difference?" asked Viconia innocently. Her own share of the treasure was on its way to Baldur's Gate. Perhaps she would settle there when all of this was over. The people there had stared at her a little, but city dwellers were used to living alongside a wider mix of races and cultures. Most of them would get used to her, and for those who would not, this much treasure could buy an awful lot of bodyguards.

"Dammit Viconia!" growled Freya, "I understand Safana's attitude but what am I supposed to have done to you? And Safana you keep your brains in your pants too, the only difference is you have room for them _and_ a willy, because your brain is so small and your bits are so loose!"

To Viconia's surprise, Safana jumped Freya and tackled her to the ground. This only worked, of course, because the werewolf let her win. She landed, straddling her and laughed triumphantly when one of the emeralds in her rings scratched Freya's face. In response, Freya transformed into the vast golden dog. Knowing what was coming, Safana tried to flee but it was too late. Freya's hot canine tongue slurped her square in the face affectionately.

"Arrrgh!" she screamed, scrambling back on all fours and wiping her face with her sleeve. "Truce! Truce!"

Freya turned back laughing, a powerful barking laugh that echoed across the camp. Viconia smiled, firelight reflecting in her warm red eyes. Safety was not her only reason for wishing to remain in Baldur's Gate for a time. Much to her own surprise, she rather enjoyed the company of the thief and the werewolf. She suspected that even the darthiir might grow on her given time. And the goblin of course, Freya planned on taking her too. Almost a full party; all it needed was a wizard. So perhaps she could even keep Baeloth.

"In all seriousness, I don't reckon Rasaad sees me in a sexual way," Freya yawned, though she didn't much care one way or the other.

"He's a man," drawled Safana. "Of course he thinks about you in a sexual way! Me too, and Viconia here. Probably even Voghiln from time to time. That's just how men are. They'd think about goats if there were nothing else available."

"So what?" shrugged Freya. "Thinking is nothing. I think about tearing out Rasaad's throat with my teeth. Also yours and Viconia's. Voghiln, not so much. Beard sticks in the teeth horribly and I reckon I'm allergic to bards... but my point is that's just how am. Just because some flawed part of your nature means that you can't stop these impulses crossing your mind, it doesn't necessarily mean you want to act on them in real life."

"But you do want to," pointed out Safana. "Deep down."

"Yes, but equally deep down _I really don't_ ," insisted Freya. "The part of my nature that would do that is counterbalanced by an even stronger part that would destroy me with guilt. And that," she finished triumphantly, "Is no less a real part of my nature than the part that wants to feast on your raw livers!"

"So you are seriously suggesting," purred Safana, "That if the three of us- you, me and Viconia- were to walk over to that tent and climb into Rasaad's bedroll right now, he wouldn't respond?"

The three women automatically looked over at his tent, where the outline of the monk could be seen removing his outer garments for the night. They imagined the scenario that Safana was describing. It was almost too cruel. Freya's booming bark of a laugh accompanied by Viconia's guinea pig-like squeaking rang out across the camp.

"Tell you what," said Freya, taking another swig of wine and leaning eagerly toward Safana, "Why don't we try it? Then, when Rasaad runs away screaming, I'll show you what a real response looks like!"

"You are persistent I'll give you that," sneered Safana.

"Oh well," shrugged Freya. "What about you Viconia? Bet you haven't tied up and tortured anyone in a while."

The treasure carts were ready to depart. Safana smiled, bid them farewell and went to find Coran. There was so much shopping to do once she returned to Baldur's Gate that she might have to buy herself a little luxury townhouse just to store it all in. Not to mention a cook, a maid to help dress her in her expensive new clothes, and a personal masseuse of course. She felt ridiculously happy. Viconia watched her leave, mulling over Freya's suggestion.

"Would you let me gag you?" the drow asked dryly. Freya looked at her, weighing up the risk. Drow were known for taking their torture seriously and she was aware that Viconia had personally murdered at least four previous partners. On the other hand, the Hero was not well-endowed when it came to common sense.

"Yeah alright," she grinned. "Just don't leave visible scars."

Viconia looked the wolf up and down appraisingly. In her mind it was a great pity that she was not a male. Even as a woman though, the Hero was a magnificent physical specimen. Six-foot-three with a mane of shimmering golden hair and a charming, flawless smile. Her chest was larger even than Viconia's and there was something almost hypnotic about the rounded curve of her bum.

"Very well," Viconia smiled. Freya's grey eyes blinked in surprise.

" _Seriously?"_

Freya was wise to be specific about physical scars. Arrow's scar from Viconia was losing its colour, gradually turning into a white, three clawed slash over her cheek. She ran her own fingers over them slowly, thinking about Glint's mother and Caelar and Irenicus and the old days when it had been her, the Harpers, Rasaad, Viconia and Xan.

Viconia had said that Rasaad would never truly forgive her for his brother's death. Of course Viconia was a jealous, hateful snake, but nevertheless Arrow couldn't help wondering if she might not have a point. The party had been up a mountain, heavily wounded and several days hike from the nearest temple (more if they'd been carrying a corpse). It was almost impossible that Gamaz could have been revived. Yet Rasaad had still blamed her for not giving him a chance to try.

She pulled one of the numbing potions from her bag to look at it. The tiny grey bottle throbbed with a burning cold, like clutching an icicle. A few drops of this addictive little potion would rob the drinker of their ability to feel anything. Love, hate, joy, anger, fear, sympathy… all gone. All that it left was a hollow person, relentlessly pursuing whatever the last thing that had mattered to them was. In her brother Eric's case that had meant staying alive at all costs. In Gamaz's it was the rather more petty goal of becoming more powerful than his little brother.

Irenicus had taken the potions away from Eric and that, coupled with his abusive treatment at the hands of the Flaming Fist… no... It was too easy to blame a faceless organization… at the hands of Grand Duke Silvershield, had killed the boy. Death by Numbing Potion withdrawal. She closed her eyes and remembered her brother exploding in a cloud of golden dust on Imoen's lap. Would Gamaz have fared any better even if they had been able to revive him? More likely he would have returned to Shar, lost the redemption he had earned with his final breath, and continued his murderous experiments.

Arrow stared at the Numbing Potion with a mixture of fear and loathing. Her first impulse after Eric's trial had been to pour them all down the nearest drain. The problem with this was that nobody was really sure what effect releasing the potions into the sewers would have. At a minimum, the constant low doses were liable to make the kobolds and other fauna that lived down there more dangerous. At worst it could end up working its way up the food chain and back into people.

Tipping them onto the ground, Jaheira had advised, could potentially cause the same problem, as they'd get sucked up through the roots of plants and into animals. A farm dog that would do literally anything to obtain bacon could be lethal. In her letters the druid had also cautioned against throwing them into the sea. There the risk to humans was minimal but there was no telling what effect it might have on an underwater ecosystem.

"Respect mother nature," Arrow muttered, remembering her words. She fingered the palm-sized grey bottle, swirling the content round and round. It weighed less than it looked like it should, but pulsated with an unnatural cold that was almost painful. When she replaced it in her pack, her fingertips were red from holding it. She wondered how anybody could bear to drink one. It must be agony going down the throat.

Luckily she had a plan to dispose of them. When all of this was over she planned to journey to the Cloud Peaks. The villages at the base of the mountain had been without a ranger for seven years, and she meant to accept the position. She smiled fondly at the memory of the feral evergreen woods running up the peaks and the cold, pure plains of snow at the tops.

They had rolled Gamaz's body down an unreachable ravine, over a ledge poking out from his mountain temple. Arrow's intention was to throw his numbing potions down there after him. There the nasty little things could stay until age and decay robbed them of their potency.

"Good evening," came a smiling voice from behind her. Arrow jumped and hastily thrust the potion into her pack. She turned to see Coran smiling at her with his hands in his pockets. His auburn hair was hanging over his face like always and his green eyes twinkled. "I heard you wanted to see me?"

"Yes. I hear you're going back to the city with Safana," Arrow said, remembering. She reached into her pack again and pulled out the letter. "Please will you take this to Glint's mother? Her name is Mrs Gardnersonson. I'm afraid I don't know where she lives but I trust you could find out."

Coran took the unsealed letter doubtfully and unfolded it. As his eyes scanned the words a frown line formed between his eyes. Knowing that she would almost certainly not attempt to read it, Rasaad had omitted some of the more inflammatory sentences that Arrow had asked him to write. Even so the message was clearly sympathetic not only to the mother but also the son himself. It even (and Coran turned pale at this part) noted that he died a martyr for the cause he believed in.

"Do you…" he began biting his lip. He paused and Arrow's brown eyes narrowed at him. "Arrow, I do not wish to be patronizing but I have to ask: do you fully understand what you are getting involved in? Baldur's Gate is on the brink of civil war and the whole Gardnersonson family are in it up to their necks. Glint won't be the last of them to go this way, I guarantee it. Are you certain you want to send a signed letter? I could simply tell her what happened to her son."

"I understand the risk. I'm not an idiot!" snapped Arrow. "Will you deliver the letter or not?"

"Very well. I'll do it," Coran agreed reluctantly. "Arrow I want you to have something."

"I can't take any gift from you, I'm sorry," she replied hastily, "Rasaad-"

"I know. It isn't that type of gift," the elf replied and he held out something wrapped in a long thin roll of fabric.

"No," said Arrow sharply. "Absolutely not."

"You're going back through the crusader camp," Coran insisted, pressing the package into her unwilling hands. "Just because you have them doesn't mean you have to use them, but they might be your only shot at escaping if you get caught. Take them."

Before Arrow could protest further, Safana arrived to tell him that the carts were leaving. She looked from Coran to Arrow and back again. The thief shot her a smug, condescending look as she linked arms with the elf and led him away, but she did not attempt to stab Arrow so the ranger wasn't bothered. Instead she stood, unhappily staring at the unwelcome present. She knew exactly what they were, and what he intended her to use them for; to cause mass carnage in the crusader camp. Coran had given her his leftover arrows of detonation. They had been powerful enough to take down a dragon. Now they were hers to use. On people.

She shoved the hateful things into the same compartment of her pack where she kept the numbing potions. Her storage spot for things that she would never use but were too dangerous to simply toss away.

There was a creak of wooden wheels and the treasure carts began their lumbering journey back to the city. Safana snuggled into the canvass covered gold like a tiny scaleless dragon as the horses whinnied and began their long steady clop into the night. Inside Freya's tent, Viconia paused from removing her tunic to listen as the carts rumbled past.

"Your friends are leaving," she observed.

"Not for long," shrugged Freya, who was far more interested in Viconia than what the thieves were doing.

"Why do you let Safana speak to you the way she does?" Viconia asked teasingly, though of course she knew the answer. "Why do you let Skie and Corwin for that matter? I'm just curious."

"Please Viconia, let's not turn this into a therapy session," groaned Freya, tossing her head back on the pillow. The drow smiled and slowly unfastened her breast plate. The werewolf watched with wide eyes, blood boiling. She'd never seen a woman with proportions like this except in engravings. And, of course, the mirror.

She lay down over Freya. The Hero was an interesting combination of soft, feminine curve over pure solid muscle. Viconia had never come across anyone else quite like her and for a while she lost herself in exploring the other woman's unusual body. When they kissed her mouth tasted strongly of alcohol, which came as no great surprise, but other than that the soldier kept herself surprisingly clean. Viconia flicked her long silver hair and watched with satisfaction as Freya's eyes followed it, mesmerized.

Now to test her theory. Viconia brushed her lips down Freya's jaw and neck, leaving a trail of butterfly kisses across her collar bone. Then she bit her shoulder so hard and unexpectedly that Freya yelped.

The drow sat back to observe the result of her little experiment. At first the other woman looked so utterly shocked that Viconia feared she might have made a mistake. Yet shock quickly turned to mounting lust and where the werewolf had been somewhat passive and lukewarm before, suddenly Viconia found herself swept up in a passionate open-mouthed kiss. Freya swung Viconia around in one impossibly strong arm and swapped their positions so that she was on top and her long golden hair fell about them like a veil.

"That all you've got?" she grinned. "I thought the drow were masters of torture. Come on Viconia, you can do better."

 

* * *

 

 

_Candlekeep, three years previously…_

Lisze had trained as a dancer before joining the monastery. All her movements were smooth, graceful, and Freya found herself enchanted by them. The monk's posh upper-class lilt betrayed links to the aristocracy, but Lisze was illegitimate and that was all that she would say. Like all monks of the Sun Soul order, she had shaved her head, but she was so pretty that this hardly mattered. She had crystal blue eyes, accentuated by black tattooing around them. Nerves of steel too, to get inked there, Freya thought. Sometimes she got the impression that her partnered monk, a stuffy matronly old bat in her mid-forties, found Lisze rather vain and silly. Freya knew better.

Lisze was clever, fun and her eyes seemed to constantly flirt with everybody, though she always made it very clear that as a monk she was off-limits. From the moment she had stepped foot in Gorion's tower, the young werewolf had desperately craved her approval and attention. The monks had told Dad that they found her progress remarkable. Aside from lycanthropic druids, who prepared for their infection years in advance, they had never seen a bitten werewolf exhibit better control over their affliction. Freya's desire to please Lisze had been no small part of her motivation.

She had been at Candlekeep since Freya was first bitten, so by now must be in her early thirties, though she did not look it. Somewhere along the way the novice Selunite's desire to impress and be liked by her mentor had morphed into something else. The young werewolf's heart hammered when she walked into a room. There were plenty of other girls who had caught her eye over the years but none so intensely nor for as long. She knew that by the age gap alone, any reciprocation of her crush would be utterly inappropriate, if not downright creepy. But she still cared more than anything what Lisze thought of her.

The monks would go on, sometimes in cringeworthily embarrassing detail, about werewolf sexuality. It was one aspect of many when it came to the monthly change, though sometimes Freya got a sneaking suspicion that it was one they particularly relished talking about. They liked to remind her how twice a year she would go into heat and want to throw herself at the nearest male. There were steps she would need to take to prevent this. Apparently in the monastery females in heat were chained up in some sort of cellar where the males could not smell them. All she had done was admit, very tentatively, in one of their sessions that she didn't think that stuff _exactly_ applied to her.

So Lisze had probed further, kindly at first, giving every impression of being supportive. She had asked when Freya had first noticed her attraction to women, whether she had ever had an interest in men at all and other far more personal questions. The young werewolf, who had told the monks everything for almost as long as she could remember, answered her. Only then, when Lisze had run out of questions, did the monk start mentioning the word 'cure.'

"I don't know!" Freya had wailed. "I don't think I'm… the way I am… because I want to replace something lacking in me."

"There must be something!" Lisze had cried frustratedly. "Think! What is it you feel is missing in you? There has to be a deficiency. Some hole in yourself that you are trying to fill with other women who have what you don't!"

" _Yeah, there's a hole in myself I'd like another woman to fill,"_ a defiant little voice thought in Freya's head.

Freya blinked, wondering where such a brash response came from. It sounded like something one of the guards might say. She was not like the guards. Teenage Freya was overly tall and lanky. Her hair was straw coloured and her pale grey eyes slightly lopsided. As well as the usual adolescent spots she also had slightly wonky teeth that she was painfully self-conscious about and a too-long nose. Despite all this, she was not what most people would describe as ugly, though like most teenagers she wholeheartedly believed that she was hideous.

"Well?" the monk demanded harshly.

" _Go on!"_ the little voice tempted her. _"What the fuck have you got to lose?"_

"Think about the last girl you were attracted too," Lisze instructed. "Think about all the things about her that brought on your unnatural feelings. Now which of them do you not have yourself? Femininity? Grace? Beauty?"

Freya flinched and her heart whimpered like an unwanted puppy. Yet her rebellious spark was burning brighter. The adult dog in her was itching to bite back. _"Go to hell,"_ it wanted to say.

"Maybe… there was something I like in other women that I haven't got myself," Freya confessed cautiously. "Two things actually."

"Aha! A breakthrough! What are they?" her therapist demanded eagerly.

" _Say it!"_ screamed the defiant little voice, louder now. _"Say it! Say it!"_ Freya took a deep breath and her expression hardened.

"Tits and a fat arse."

The way it came out of her mouth was not at all how it sounded in her head. Her inner voice had been grinning, confident, wolfish, but Freya's real words escaped as a hesitant tremor. Yet the words were loose and there was no reigning them back now.

Lisze's beautiful face contorted with fury. Her hand shot out of nowhere and with the force of a trained Sun Soul monk, she smacked Freya in the face. The werewolf's eyes watered in pain. All she'd wanted was for Lisze to like her enough to smile at her occasionally. Instead she was an object of loathing to her.

"You're disgusting!" Lisze yelled. "Not enough that you're a werewolf, you've decided to be a filthy pervert as well! You sicken me! I can't see why you don't sicken yourself."

It ended with the monks going to Gorion. They had come from Amn, where attitudes toward people like Freya were hostile bordering on murderous. Naturally they assumed that her father would be as horrified as they were. Gorion, however, hailed from Baldur's Gate where, thanks to Maire Silvershield and her endless aristocratic progeny, such hatred was aggressively suppressed. Dad had called the guards to remove them from Candlekeep there and then, and unceremoniously hurled their belongings over the battlements after them.

"Don't cry my daughter… my little girl…" sighed Gorion. They stood atop the castle watching the monks who had practically raised her striding away. He brushed her tears with his ageing hand and pushed her hair back from her face. "You're better than that! Better than them! We will talk more this evening. I'm going to the catacombs to fetch you some books. You mustn't tell anyone I gave them to you, but trust me once you read them you will never have to worry about what they think again, I'll make sure of it. I swear it."

Then up from the vaults he brought leather bound books, a few at a time, and placed them on the bed for her to read. Imoen's eyes lit up when she saw them. They were magical tomes, she had said. To make Freya stronger, dextrous and more charismatic. Imoen mentioned books to make her smarter too, but those ones kept mysteriously disappearing. Once Freya had the strangest dream where she could have sworn she saw a drained intelligence tome returning, carried on the backs of a dozen skeletal rats. Freya didn't care. She barely even registered the effect of the strength tomes, she was too preoccupied with what the charisma tomes had done.

"You don't even look like you anymore," Imoen breathed enviously. "I mean you do… but you don't."

That was immediately obvious. Freya's chest was suddenly ridiculously heavy, though she now had the muscle to carry it easily. Running her tongue over her teeth, Freya could tell that the tomes had straightened them. The werewolf looked at her reflection in the tower window. She could tell something had changed but the image was too pale to see clearly. Imoen handed her a silver looking glass but she did not look in it straight away. Instead she retreated to the tower room where she went at full moon to transform and bolted the door, wanting to be alone.

She sat down on her mattress, or more accurately the pile of shredded fibres that had been mauled to death by the wolf. Her hair was different, she realised, lifting a lock between her thumb and forefinger. It was soft and shiny, like spun gold. When she dropped it, it fell into a perfect loose curl. Freya was the same height, she knew because she still had to duck to get into the room, but she had bulked out and it no longer felt disproportionate. Finally she took a deep breath and raised the silver mirror to her face.

Freya stared at the perfect stranger gazing back at her in the mirror. She was unnaturally flawless, strong and beautiful. Lisze had been wrong. Now Freya had the things she had been 'lacking' in greater quantities than anybody else she had ever met, but her 'unnatural preferences' hadn't budged an inch. Freya tried smiling. The reflection grinned back; confident, charming and completely artificial.

"Who are you?" she whispered. She knew she ought to be pleased with what she saw. If she'd asked herself yesterday, she would have begged for this. Yet now, at a gut level, everything felt twistedly, horribly wrong. "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"

She hurled the mirror into the opposite wall where it shattered into a thousand tinkling fragments. And that was when the angry little voice returned to answer her question.

_Disgusting bitch… sickening freak… animal…_

After a while Freya found herself picturing Lisze's face. Not smiling with approval at her the way her fantasies used to be, but full of disgust and hate. In her mind the monk wasn't any less attractive that way. Freya could not bring herself to hate Lisze but all that anger had to go somewhere. She remembered how Lisze had hit her. It was the only time that the monk had ever betrayed any real feeling, never mind touch her. Trying to recall how it felt, Freya slapped herself experimentally. The sharp, hot pain was unpleasant, but the fantasy of the other woman punishing her physically was oddly satisfying. She checked the bolts to the door, making doubly sure that they were locked. Then she returned to the bed and smacked herself harder.

 

* * *

 

 

_Present day…_

Viconia kicked Freya in the face with all her strength. She had needed some talking into this. The drow was nowhere near of a size to do the werewolf any real damage. But should Freya choose to retaliate, the magically enhanced woman would squash Viconia like a bug.

Once she was sufficiently reassured that there would be no retribution, however, the drow was more than happy to play this game. Since she had come to the surface she had been hunted, abused and persecuted by rivvil. She was enjoying having the opportunity to really lay into one of them, almost as much as Freya seemed to enjoy being hit.

"A pathetic effort!" she snapped, grabbing Freya's long golden hair and yanking it back. It forced the Hero, who was on her knees between Viconia's thighs to look up at her. "Make your tongue work faster, slave, or I shall deem it useless and cut it out! I'd have thought you might have learned _something_ from Coran when he was a woman."

"Coran was surprisingly bad at-"

"You dare talk back to me?!" Viconia demanded in a tone of low fury. She couldn't shout, not unless they wanted to alert the entire army to their activities but she stood up. Her body was perfect, long smooth legs rising to a patch of silver curls in which Freya's mouth had been buried moments before. Her wide hips pinched in at the waist and her chest was a size to rival the werewolf's own, even without any magical enhancement.

Those red-wine eyes burned down on Freya, blazing with contempt. It made her heart hammer and her knees weak with desire. Viconia was not completely acting. All of the resentment, hatred and suppressed rage that she bore humanity, she was releasing now on Freya, who loved it. Viconia was a goddess, she was a filthy dog not fit to lick her boots… and damn it was a turn on.

"No Mistress," Freya murmured hungrily, leaning in to continue pleasing Viconia, but the drow decided to punish her anyway. She kicked out again, splitting the other woman's lip. The wolf looked up at her, grey eyes heavy with lust.

Viconia snarled and placed her foot on Freya's neck. Pressing into the floor. This actually hurt. The Hero whimpered but made no effort to free herself, gripping the bedroll and bracing herself. Viconia reached into her pack, looking for something to strike her with which would not leave too many marks. She found a mace with a slim handle and an evil spiked head. Striking with the usual end might well do some real harm, even to Freya, but she planned on holding it just below the head and hitting her with the blunt part.

"On all fours!" she commanded her.

"Er… Viconia?" replied Freya, eyeing the mace's vicious spikes apprehensively. "Remember what I said about visible marks…"

"Are you disobeying me?" Viconia demanded, dragging Freya into position by her hair. The drow cupped her beautiful face roughly in one hand, indifferent to the other woman's discomfort. She straddled Freya, riding her like a pony, gripping her throat tightly with her free hand. Then she dangled the mace teasingly in front of the other woman's face and leaned down so that her silver hair mingled with Freya's gold. "You know I was just going to hit you with this," she said silkily, "But I think this defiant bitch needs humiliating."

An expression of fear mingled with intense arousal appeared on Freya's face. Viconia leaned in further so that her lips brushed the werewolf's ear. She said, in a more normal voice; "How far do you want to run with this?"

Freya might be a fool, but she was no innocent and had a pretty shrewd idea of what was coming next. It was certainly a new experience. Sex, for her, usually involved her pleasing the other woman, whoever she was. The first few times she had let them try to reciprocate but found herself utterly incapable of getting aroused by her partner treating her nicely. Coran had been by far the worst. Respectful, complimentary, attentive… physically he had made a very attractive woman but when it came down to it, she had lain on her back feeling nothing but boredom for half an hour until in the end she had faked so that they could move on. Unfortunately the elf, with his extensive experience, had noticed instantly. It had proven awkward.

"Yeah, go for it," she shrugged to Viconia, with more bravado than she felt.

Viconia fastened her mouth around Freya's earlobe and bit, hard. She pulled away, raking her sharp little teeth over the werewolf's ear, eliciting a very dog-like whine. The other woman bit and nibbled down her back, and around the large curve of her breast. Every now and then she would scratch Freya on a completely different part of her body, making her startle with pain and surprise.

Viconia pressed her hand between Freya's legs. It was only a finger but she noticed the blonde woman press her eyes shut and take a sharp little breath. As she continued to move her finger around in gentle circles, the werewolf gritted her teeth and cringed as though she were expecting something unpleasant. The drow raised her eyebrows.

"You've never had anything up you before I take it?" she asked Freya casually.

"No Mistress," the werewolf answered formally, after a pause. The idea held no appeal, except for the fact that Viconia wanted to do it.

"In that case I should probably lubricate this first," remarked Viconia, twirling the mace's slender handle between her fingers thoughtfully. Then her scarlet eyes flashed. "But I'm not going to."

She didn't give her much warning either. Freya was forced to bite the pillow in front of her to stop herself screaming with agony, but anyone who passed the tent would still have heard her. It didn't penetrate very far, Viconia was aiming for pain and humiliation rather than actual injury, but after pressing it in and out of her entrance a few times it started to come away bloody.

They settled into the same bedroll, though Freya did not stop shivering for some time afterward. Viconia smiled, satisfied with her handiwork.

"They really weren't kidding about it hurting the first time," Freya observed. She attempted to say it in a joking way, but she was transparently shaken.

"Never mind. It'll be nicer the next time," purred Viconia, tracing her finger gently over Freya's lips. Suddenly she pulled her hand down and squeezed. Her fingernails dug cruel little grooves into the Hero's neck. "Unless your next time happens to be with me, in which case it is going to hurt _more._ "

"It can't possibly be any worse than that," panted Freya, though she looked hopeful.

"You forget who you are talking to!" Viconia smiled wickedly. "I spent decades practising what it means to be a mistress. Believe me, it can _always_ get worse. In fact, it's about to!"

"Nah. Not my arse Viconia," Freya managed with a weak smile. "Even I have to draw the line somewhere."

"Not what I had in mind," Viconia replied with an evil smirk. "Corwin thinks making you lick her boots counts as humiliation? Get dressed, slave. I'm about to show you both what a rank amateur she really is."

 

* * *

 

 

It was late and Corwin was tired, but Duke Silvershield had arrived on his charger and, after he had gone to check on his daughter, the Captain had filled him in on their battle plans for Bridgefort. She did not mention that they had given Arrow permission to negotiate the fort's surrender. That would guarantee that the blockading crusaders would be unprepared and facing the wrong way when the Flaming Fist arrived to destroy them. It was a good plan of Skie's, Corwin had to admit, but the Duke was an old school fighter and would probably consider it dishonourable. She wasn't sure she cared if it meant more of her officers got to go home to their kids after.

He might find out after the battle was won, depending on how many of the Bridgefort defenders survived. Corwin had not mentioned to Skie and Freya the possibility, if not likelihood, that if they got the timing even a little bit wrong Arrow and her party would be killed. But it was worth it because overall less of their people would die. In the end wars were a callous numbers game.

This was the grim mood that Corwin was in when she stepped out of her tent and almost tripped over Freya. The werewolf was tied up on the ground and gagged with a pillow case. Furiously, Corwin ripped the material out of Freya's mouth.

"What in the nine hells?" she cried.

"Sorry Sir," replied Freya, not looking even remotely apologetic. "Did not see this coming. Worth it though."

"Is that the Hero of Baldur's Gate I hear?" came a waspish voice from within the tent. Freya froze, eyes wide as first a gold buckle, followed by an expensive boot, exited the tent. She heard Viconia's horrified gasp in the distance. Neither of them had realised that Duke Silvershield himself would be visiting the camp that evening. Yet there he was, glaring down his pointed nose at the new Sergeant of the Flaming Fist.

"Milord," said Freya.

The Duke said nothing, but stepped on Freya, pressing her back deeper into the mud. As he strode away toward where his own tent was being set up for him, she turned her eyes to Corwin who looked about ready to kill her.

"I just spend the last half hour convincing him that you were getting better and could be trusted!" Corwin near-howled in disbelief. "What is the matter with you?! You… You…"

"I what? Disgust you?" challenged Freya, with a wink and a grin.

"There is something seriously wrong with you!" Corwin sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "No Bence, don't bother, just leave her there. Freya; Arrow doesn't suspect a thing, she is leaving to arrange Bridgefort's 'surrender' as we speak. You can lie in the cold mud for a bit. We'll untie you when it's time."


	28. Cluck!

In the end it was Skie who found and untied Freya. She had been looking for her. As well as the mundane battle, she had another plan involving Bridgefort. A plan to help poor Imoen. Since Khalid and Jaheira were separated, she reasoned, this would be the perfect time to try a little matchmaking. If Imoen were to go with Arrow's party into the fort, then Khalid could spend time with her without Jaheira interfering. All Skie needed to do was to persuade the ranger to take her childhood friend and leave the overbearing druid behind. Unfortunately, Arrow had proven most uncooperative.

"Bring Imoen? Whatever for?" Arrow had asked, bemused. "If the negotiations fail we might end up having to defend the fort and Imoen is in no state for that, even now that her headaches have stopped. She never asked to come ranging with us and I don't blame her! She'll be much safer in the camp."

Were it not for her trapped father, Arrow might have wished that she were staying herself. The atmosphere in Bridgefort was filthy, the air oppressively thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and the wails of hungry children. It put her in mind of the Chapel of Ilmater just before dysentery had broken out. Coran was being too closely watched by the Fist now to sneak in and out of the city with food, but he had kept an eye on the little shelter. Apparently there were only the two acolytes left to manage it now. The aging priest had contracted the illness himself and died shortly after.

"True, although there might be another reason she'd go to Bridgefort!" Skie dropped her voice conspiratorially.

"What do you mean?" Arrow frowned, snapping out of her unhappy musings. She had not been close to the priest. There had been little time to stop work and talk, cleaning up after the refugees had taken up every moment. Yet he was a terrible loss to the people he had been serving, and she wished herself back in the city to continue his work.

"You aren't very observant are you?" giggled Skie. "The poor kid obviously has it bad for a certain someone. Really bad."

"Oh…" said Arrow slowly. She had forgotten about Imoen's crush on the Calishite. And hadn't she advised her to go for it? She and Rasaad had been getting on so much better lately that it had completely slipped her mind. "But Rasaad isn't coming with us this time, he's still badly beaten up from that dragon. He'll be in the camp with Freya."

She chided herself for her reluctance to step aside for Imoen. Hadn't the poor girl suffered enough on account of her and Freya? Suffering in the place of others was a holy duty. The priest of Ilmater had perished in a pool of his own faeces, while all Arrow was required to suffer was the loss of Rasaad. She took a deep breath and steeled herself. Of course she would avoid the monk so that Imoen could have a clear run. Yet if she thought accepting that would be hard, Skie was about to prove Viconia's earlier words; it can always get worse.

" _Rasaad?!"_ Skie spluttered, giggling once more. "Sweet heavens no! I don't think she's ever looked at the monk in her life! No! I'm talking about Khalid."

"Oh!" gasped Arrow, her brown eyes widening and her heart sinking unpleasantly. Suddenly she started to recall their travels together along the Sword Coast in a new light. Odd compliments here and there, Imoen choosing to go to Khalid for comfort when she was sad over anybody else and disapproving glares from Jaheira. One conversation that they'd had on the road to Beregost sprang to mind.

_~_

_"That must be tough mustn't it? Liking someone completely off limits?" said Imoen. She suddenly looked a bit sad._

_"Imoen… do_ _you_ _like Rasaad?" asked Arrow slowly, finding herself hoping that the answer was no._

_"Oh gods no!" laughed Imoen perking up a bit. "I mean his accent is nice and everything but… I just meant… well it doesn't matter what I meant," she finished lamely._

_~_

"She meant Khalid. Saints preserve us," Arrow groaned, burying her freckled face into her hands. It had never occurred to her before but now that someone had spelled it out it suddenly seemed obvious. Unlike the Duke's daughter however she didn't think it remotely exciting or funny. "That's... really unfortunate."

"Will be for her if his wife finds out, from what I heard," spluttered Skie, who seemed to think it a fine piece of gossip.

"Poor Imoen," said Arrow wretchedly.

"No, listen," Skie whispered conspiratorially. She leaned forward, eager as a chipmunk. Even in camp she had managed to obtain and apply a discrete layer of makeup. Arrow wondered why. They were marching to war. Nobody else seemed bothered about leaving a pretty corpse. "If you can get her to come to Bridgefort with you this isn't a hopeless case. Especially if you can find some reason to persuade Jaheira not to come! Come on Arrow, it's perfect!"

"Seems like the definition of hopeless to me," said Arrow bluntly.

"But they'd be so right for each other and everyone says Jaheira is awful!" Skie trilled on, badly misreading her audience. "She just nags him all the time and they must be bored with each other after ten years. Ten years, can you _imagine_? Khalid is in there, Jaheira's out here. Just sneak Imoen inside and leave them alone for a bit!"

"I'm walking away now," replied Arrow sourly.

"Fine I'll try Freya!" Skie snapped. "She appreciates romance!"

So now here she was, trying Freya. Arrow had already set out (taking Jaheira and leaving Imoen) but there was still time to send the pink-haired girl in after them.

The Hero did not feel like telling Skie how she had ended up tied and gagged, and her semi-lover knew better than to ask. At the edge of the camp, Duke Silvershield was waving off a peculiar assortment of robed figures into the night. Freya recognized the symbols of Helm and Ilmater among them, alongside those of Talos and the Sea Bitch. The bizarre alliance were headed in the direction of the crusader camp.

"Who are they?" asked Freya, squinting after them as their flickering torches slipped away into the dark.

"A group of clerics from all the different temples of Baldur's Gate," replied Skie indifferently. "They all claim to have seen visions of this 'Servant of All Faiths' and they're absolutely convinced that it isn't Caelar. Or you for that matter. They're heading to Dragonspear to try to persuade the Shining Lady that she isn't the Chosen One. Daddy gave them permission to seek an audience."

The churches (who would normally struggle to agree even on the colour of an orange) had each sent a representative prophet who believed that the Servant of all Faiths was not Caelar. Freya wondered what they would think if they knew who it really was. Her eyes drifted automatically to Viconia's tent. So did Skie's.

"I heard Viconia went into your tent?" Skie ventured tentatively. "The Quartermaster was talking about it with some of the officers."

"The Quartermaster talks too fucking much," Freya muttered darkly.

"They all went quiet when I sat down. Seemed to think I'd be upset," Skie went on. She pulled off her calf-skin Fist-issue glove and played with it idly. For a common foot soldier she was wearing far too many expensive rings underneath. Freya looked down at her fellow officer sternly and replied with one word: Bence.

A tense silence crept between them. Freya avoided catching Skie's eye. The noblewoman had made it explicitly clear that she was not her girlfriend, which in theory meant that she was free to do whatever she liked. Or whoever she liked. Freya refused on principle to feel guilty about it. Only she _was_ feeling guilty about it.

"I don't mind you know," said Skie after a while.

"I know," replied Freya tersely. "I wish you did."

"It works though, doesn't it?" Skie tried encouragingly. "Why should we be like Coran and Safana, sneaking around behind each other's backs and getting mad at each other? Isn't it better to be honest?"

Freya could not bring herself to answer. It was not working for her at all. Being with Skie made her feel as though a giant worm had hatched inside her and was slowly eating her from the inside out. Only real worms were easier to cure. She was trying to drown this one with alcohol, but so far it was proving resilient.

The golden Hero looked into Skie's sharp twinkling eyes miserably. Corwin had a point, it was pathetic. Freya could no more wish Skie into liking women than she could wish herself into fancying men. Yet there was almost nothing in Faerun that she would not do to make the other woman happy.

"I wanted to ask you something," Skie said, "It's about Imoen…"

No, there was almost nothing that Freya would not do to make Skie smile. No matter how bad an idea it might be.

As Arrow and her party set out to Bridgefort, Dorn slurping from Invisibility Potions to keep himself hidden, two figures watched their progress from the top of the hill. Bodhi tensed eagerly when her brother detected an invisible party member, but slumped with disappointment when it turned out to be Dorn and not Freya.

"Should we take the weakling anyway?" asked the vampire, who was growing restless.

"Whatever for?" Irenicus asked.

"I'm curious to know what Bhaalspawn blood tastes like," replied Bodhi, licking her thin blue lips. Irenicus slapped her face with the back of his hand. She stumbled, glaring up at him resentfully. He had always been like this, even before. That was why Ellesime had finished with him in the end. Many had been the time since their curse and exile that Bodhi had rued not doing the same when she had the chance. It was all his fault, but he was also her only hope.

"You will not eat the spare!" Irenicus commanded. "Eric is dead. What if something were to happen to Freya before we captured her? If she is killed in battle the ranger is our only backup."

"If you wish to preserve her, all the more reason to capture her!" Bodhi pressed. "They could both die in this war, they're fighting on the same side after all."

"No," Irenicus insisted firmly. "For one thing, sister, your prisoners have a habit of dropping dead. Even some I specifically ordered to be kept alive. For another, as long as she is free there is always a possibility of her growing stronger. We will leave her be."

"They killed your spy," Bodhi said slyly. "I found his body in the woods. Most of it anyway. Crows work fast."

"It matters not, the gnome had served his purpose," Irenicus replied indifferently. "He weakened the chimera, Imoen, enough for me to break through her mind's defences. I am inside now and the bonds between the pieces of her soul will weaken with each passing day."

"The stupidity of lesser races never ceases to astound me," Bodhi observed. "When you showed Glint your powers, he could not resist the lure of recruiting you for his petty cause. Who would be so simple minded as to believe that you would waste your time on a city of human peasants?"

Irenicus nodded coolly. This was why he had always kept Bodhi around. She was whiny, annoying and infuriatingly stupid. Yet unlike others she had always shown him unshakable loyalty and recognized him for what he truly was. A god in the making.

"Foolish sheep believe what they wish to believe and are blind to that which they do not wish to see," he said.

Had Bodhi been a little more observant, she might have spotted him eyeing her coldly as he said this. Irenicus winced suddenly, patted his shoulder, then tightened a few of the bolts along his limbs. He gave his arm an experimental little shake and nodded, almost satisfied. The pain was growing worse, they were both noticing it. Vampirism, Bodhi found, had halted the deterioration of her body but her magic, her elfin powers, grew ever weaker. Some days she could barely think. It was as though her mind were slowly dissolving away.

"True," replied Bodhi, with a faint smile. "Mortals are easily manipulated. I obtained a fine rogue for us while I was passing through the city. His name is Yoshimo, he's from Kara-Tur, he came here searching for his sister or some such sentimental dribble."

"I take it you pretended you'd find her in exchange for his service?" sneered Irenicus.

"Better!" Bodhi smirked, showing her predatory fangs. "His sister is dead, beheaded by the Hero of Baldur's Gate. He was so desperate for revenge on Freya that I didn't even need to trance him into taking the geas ring. He put it on himself!"

The exiles smiled icily, marvelling at the ease with which their inferiors in intellect could be turned into pawns. Among those inferiors, Irenicus counted Bodhi. She was his 'sister' and he would reward her with restoration of a sort… but not the soul of a whole Bhaalspawn. He had no intention of making her an equal, a rival.

No, she would not have little Arowan. A soul fragment from one of the dead Candlekeep Bhaalspawn would do nicely for Bodhi. Enough to lift the curse, but she would remain decidedly weaker than himself. As she ought to be. Irenicus laced his fingers behind his back and pressed the thin tips together. He did not even notice one of his fingernails dropping off. He and his sister slunk back into the wood. It was a missed opportunity. Had they stayed a few minutes longer they might have snared both Freya and Imoen at once.

"What is it?" Imoen asked, finding Freya's large hand blocking her path. The werewolf stopped and sniffed the air. Imoen asked in an urgent whisper, "Is it Irenicus?"

"Yes," Freya replied simply, "And no." She transformed and began snuffling at the ground with her wet nose. In human form she could smell the 'what' but she needed a dog nose to get a sense of direction. It was not the wizard himself, the scent was too faint, and yet he had been here and there was something of his left behind. A trap for the Flaming Fist perhaps? Or had he taken Arrow?

Her nose led her through the leaf bracken and grass to a whole, yellowing fingernail lying forlornly under a birch tree. She resumed her human form and lifted it up gingerly, disgusted and fascinated. It felt bumpy and overly delicate, like it would crumble if she applied the slightest pressure.

"What in the hells?" she muttered. She held it out to Imoen. "It's one of his! You know some magic, is this some sort of spell?"

"I don't think so," replied Imoen slowly. "I mean fingernails often feature in dark magic but normally the wizard wants to curse the person who it belongs to. I don't see any other signs of a spell. No runes, no glowy stones. What do you think it means?"

"I don't know," Freya puzzled, "But it smells wrong. Everything about him, it's so hard to describe, is just decaying. Like he's rotting alive. I think he's sick." She thought for a moment. "Show it to Jaheira when you get to Bridgefort. That's a good reason for you to be there now I come to think of it."

"How are we going to get in?" whispered Imoen anxiously.

"I'm not," said Freya. "I can't go anywhere near the camp, they'll recognize me. You are going to walk through."

"How? Invisibility potions?" asked Imoen.

"Nah, the gate is closed and they'd hear you if you tried to climb it," said Freya. "Dorn only got away with it because he snuck in with the rest of Arrow's party. I asked the wizards though, and Baeloth has made this!" She placed a necklace around Imoen's throat. It was a crude leather string with a feather tied to it. The ground rushed up suddenly toward Imoen's face and she tried to cry out in panic. Instead she clucked. "He meant for it to work the other way around," Freya explained as Chickimoen cocked her head at her. "He was trying to make his pit animals look like humans to make the Black Pits more impressive. Unfortunately the chickens still thought like chickens and tried to peck each other without beaks. Turned it into a very different sort of show, you know what I mean?"

"Bawk!" Imoen cried. Freya slipped the necklace off of her and the pink-haired girl stood up laughing. "I guess a little chicken could slip around the sentries. Still don't get why you couldn't use it though."

Freya grinned and put the necklace on herself. There was a flash of light and Imoen looked down to see Faerun's first charisma-enhanced chicken. Freya was plump, golden and succulent. Imoen's pupil's dilated and she caught herself salivating, just from imagining how delicious her roasted childhood friend would taste. From her soft rich plumage to the curve of her huge drumsticks, everything about her screamed _'eat me!'_

"Ok, you're too tasty," Imoen laughed, taking the feather back. "But how do I get into the keep? Jaheira has the wardstone."

"Fly," replied Freya as though it were obvious.

"Chickens can't fly," retorted Imoen.

"That's a myth. They can fly short distances," the werewolf replied resentfully. "I bought myself one once as a full-moon treat, but it flew up the tree I was chained to before I could eat it. Little sod stayed there all night tormenting me. Even tried to shit on me, the bastard. Safana laughed so hard in the morning I'm surprised she didn't piss herself."

"Ok then," replied Imoen, her perkiness tinged with nerves. It was not just the thought of walking through the camp itself, or braving the arrows to get into the fort. Nor was it even the risk of being eaten, though there were many chickens and she was an odd colour so the risk was small. Khalid was inside that fort and it was now or never. She was determined to tell him how she felt and put an end to her yearning, one way or another. Once she would never have dreamed of doing something so brazen, but since the headaches had stopped she'd felt like a different person.

Imoen threw back her shoulders confidently and turned to Freya with a cocky grin that could have been the werewolf's own. She ran her fingers back through her hair, just like her friend did and winked. There was something about the whole routine that Freya found disconcerting, but she was struggling to put her finger on quite what.

"Ah, sod it," Imoen shrugged, "What have we got to lose?"


	29. The Battle for Bridgefort

Arrow and her party found Bridgefort in a far worse state than they had left it. As they picked their way through more dead and wounded, the fort shook from magical missiles exploding off of the magical barriers. The wizard maintaining their defences had great black bags under his eyes. His face was pale and drawn but he dared not sleep. The Crusaders had scouts too. They must have realised that the Flaming Fist were close and ramped up the attacks, hoping to take the fort before reinforcements arrived.

"You're back!" cried Khalid urgently. He shoved weary guards aside as he pelted down the battlement steps toward them. There was a large dent in his breastplate, under which an ugly bruise would be blooming, and he sported a nasty gash down his face. "What did the Fist commanders decide?"

"We have their permission to negotiate a surrender," Arrow replied breathlessly. The defenders who were within earshot gave a weak cheer at this news. They were fatigued, losing and wanted it over.

"Thank the gods," Khalid sighed with relief, and pulled his daughter into a smiling hug. "I c- confess I did not think you had a hope of convincing them. I am so proud of you!"

"Thanks, but it was Skie's doing," admitted Arrow. "She persuaded the Captain and Freya. They were dead against surrender, but she took them off to one side. I don't know what she said to them but they came back and agreed to let us do this."

"I- I'll have the white f- flag raised right away," Khalid panted.

"No, not till first light," said Arrow. "The Fist don't trust the Crusaders not to attack us on our way out. They'll be waiting for us on the road outside the camp. If Caelar's forces do attack us, those of us who can fight will need to hold them off while the farmers and their kids run."

"Do not be afraid, small people!" boomed Minsc, who had a weak grasp on both numbers and reality. "The Crusaders will need to get past Minsc's sword if they are to harm you, and that will take time because Minsc has a _very_ large sword."

"To die on a pile of the fallen corpses of my slaughtered enemies," rumbled Dorn, making Arrow wince. "There are worse ways to go, even if there are better causes."

Khalid nodded grimly. It hardly needed pointing out that in such a scenario they would be expected to lay down their lives so that the children trapped here could flee. It put a lot of pressure on tomorrow's talks. All of their lives depended on them.

"In that case we should t- t- t-urn in," he said. "I want to face these talks with a clear h- head."

Khalid went to curl up alone in the pantry, but Jaheira remained to tend to the wounded. She was the only person in the fort with healing spells left and was in for a busy night. The hardest part was having to balance who was in greatest need with who had the best chance of survival if she healed them. Inevitably it would mean leaving some sufferers to their fates and having to deal with their angry families afterward.

"Look, look!" screamed one of the children, picking something up from the window.

"Come away it's dangerous! Are you trying to get shot?" screeched his father, jerking out of an uneasy slumber.

"But it's food Dad!"

It was indeed. A harassed, dusty-looking chicken who had shuffled her way through the crusader camp avoiding the cooking pots. Imoen had far from mastered the art of flying (not a chicken specialty in any case) but with a long run up she had just managed to cross the moat. Then by gradual, exhausting degrees, she had flapped her way from window to window until she found one wide enough for poultry to squeeze through.

To the immense disappointment of the boy and his father, Jaheira was forced to point out that it was not a real chicken. She'd had experience with polymorphed chickens in the past, there was something in the body language that gave it away. In any case real chickens did not have pink crests.

Arrow screwed her eyes together as Jaheira removed the feathered necklace, hoping against hope that when she opened them Imoen would not be standing there. But of course she was. Jaheira's lips pressed together and her elfin eyes narrowed. Arrow watched the druid nervously. Now that she knew herself, it was clear to her that Jaheira did too.

"What are you doing here, child?" Jaheira asked coldly.

"Freya asked if you could take a look at this," said Imoen breathlessly, holding out Irenicus's fingernail. "She says it smells like the Hooded Man's. Could it be a spell component?"

"This could not have waited until _after_ the blockade was lifted?" Jaheira replied, with a hint of a sneer, watching Imoen with unfriendly eyes. However, she immediately became distracted by the repugnant item in her hand. "What in Silvanus' name?" she breathed, turning it over and over. Arrow craned over her shoulder for a look. It was not a healthy nail, even for a detached one. The colour was a poisonous yellow-brown and half-split down the centre. There were lumps on the surface, as though it were very slowly bubbling. It did not look like something that ought to have come from a living creature.

"Gross," said Arrow pulling a face. Dynaheir took the offending fingernail and she and Jaheira pawed over it while Dorn and Minsc set out the bedrolls. Arrow noticed Imoen whisper a question in Minsc's ear. The berserker jerked his thumb down the narrow corridor where Khalid had gone to rest alone in the pantry. She slipped away from the magic users.

"It is not a hostile spell," Jaheira said, finally looking up. "But this definitely isn't natural."

"Thine stalker appears to have been cursed," agreed Dynaheir. "Perhaps his interest in Bhaal's children stems from a desire to lift it. How, I cannot say, but thine blood is powerful. Freya's perhaps more so. When gods create progeny some of their power is transferred to the offspring, they decide how much. Thy father may have favoured some of the mothers over others."

Yet they could not ask Arrow about her mother, as without their noticing, she was already gone. There would have been little she could tell them in any case. She remembered nothing at all of life before Candlekeep. The older children had been able to tell Gorion their names and those of their younger playmates, before he cast his spells to make them forget each other. Arowan had been a tiny, mousey thing, trying to hide under Sarevok's coat and sobbing for her mother.

They would have done better to ask Imoen. She was the last living person to see the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn together before their memories of each other were erased. It was also her first memory. She'd opened her eyes in a pink-lined box, marred by the stench of decay, and climbed slowly out of her own grave. The other children had been milling about, confused and disorientated. Some of them had been clutching their temples. Gorion had ignored their discomfort, he was so ecstatic to see his daughter revived, but she had not recognized him. Only then had he realised his mistake, that souls cannot be replaced, and that the chimera he had created was not his daughter. As his new, unwanted family watched on petrified he had laughed, torn his hair and screamed.

Imoen was attempting to hide in shadows to slip down the corridor unnoticed. It was certainly dark enough to pull off such a feat, but no amount of stealth could change the fact that it was also very narrow and a ranger was blocking her path, arms folded.

"Imoen, don't do it," said Arrow flatly.

"But you said-"

"I thought the Calishite man you were talking about was Rasaad," she sighed heavily. "This is ridiculous, you need to forget about Khalid."

Imoen took a deep breath.

"I can't forget him. I tried. I ran all the way to Baldur's Gate to try to forget him."

Arrow's eyes filled with pity. "That long?" she asked. Then she shook her head and said with certainty; "Imoen this is a mistake."

"It's my mistake!" the pink-haired girl replied defiantly. Her tone of voice, her expression and even her body language had all changed abruptly. She was standing taller, shoulders thrown back, her hand reaching toward her belt, as though for a scabbard that wasn't there. "Get out of my way!"

" _Imoen?_ " Arrow cried, growing more concerned by the second.

Though nothing physically had changed it was as if someone else had taken over Imoen's body. The corridor was narrow and only dimly lit. Light from a distant torch reflected from the cold, damp stones. Arrow could see nothing obvious to account for her friend's peculiar behaviour. Yet just as suddenly, Imoen's stance and bearing shifted again and this next one seemed… familiar.

"No, puny ranger is right!" grunted Imoen, her voice suddenly dropping two octaves. "This stupid plan. Sleep now. Fight tomorrow."

The ranger knew who it sounded like, but why would Imoen imitate a dead Candlekeep Bhaalspawn? If it was a joke it was in extremely poor taste. Arrow gaped at her, perplexed, but then she remembered the vision Irenicus had sent. All the other Candlekeep Bhaalspawn had been there, and he had seemed determined to detach the pieces of Imoen's patchwork soul. It would seem that he was starting to succeed. Now that Imoen was under emotional pressure the cracks between the souls were beginning to show.

"Thorg?" Arrow asked, panicking. "Am I talking to Thorg?"

"Hey chill Arrow it's, like, all good," Imoen drawled, relaxing. A dreamy, mellow expression flickered over her face.

Then Imoen changed again. Her shoulders hunched a little, her bird-like arms crossed in front of her and her body language became very closed off. Even so, she rolled her eyes a little as she spoke.

" _I_ agree with you, but then I would, wouldn't I?" Arrow heard her own glib voice emerge disconcertingly from Imoen's lips.

Then all at once the pink-haired girl flipped to the polar opposite. A cocky grin spread over her face, and she stood legs parted and arms wide, seeming to take up far more space than her size ought to allow. She said with a booming bark of a laugh; "Eh, you're right, it's a dumb idea but sod it, you only live once!"

"Freya's an idiot, don't listen to Freya!" cried Arrow frantically.

There was obviously a far bigger problem here than Imoen embarrassing herself in front of Khalid. Nevertheless, her strength of feeling for the married man was clearly exacerbating the damage Irenicus had done. If she actually went into his room and threw herself at him (something Arrow was certain that Imoen would not be doing in her normal state of mind) the inevitable rejection was sure to make things even worse.

"Stop it! Stop it Imoen! Please just come back to the hall with me," Arrow whispered urgently. She stroked Imoen's arm in a calming way, but the other woman looked mutinous. It was as if she would climb the walls to bypass Arrow if she needed to. "Minsc and Dynaheir can take you back to camp. It'll be ok. I promise."

"No, don't you see? This is true love." Imoen's eyes softened and her voice became gentler.

"Who am I talking to now… Draxle?" hazarded Arrow. All she really knew about the dead half-elf was that she had been one of Gorion's favourites along with Freya. A party-loving, ineffective warrior with romantic-idealism when it came to knights. Probably the worst of the twelve personalities that could float to the surface right now.

The door at the end of the corridor opened and Arrow's heart sank. It was Khalid. He was dressed only in a long white shirt and his ginger hair fell tousled around his sleepy face. As always he smiled to see them, but it was a weak smile and she got the impression that he was secretly desperate for them to go away so that he could rest before morning. He was far too good-natured to say so, however.

"Khalid, there's something wrong with Imoen," said Arrow. "Irenicus has been screwing with her brain, ignore anything she says- she doesn't really mean it!"

"But I do mean it!" Imoen cried, her voice sounding like her own now. "Khalid, I have to talk to you alone for a minute. Don't send me away, please!"

Eyes full of concern, Khalid held the door to the pantry open for her. Arrow was fairly sure he wouldn't have done if he'd had any notion of why she was there, but it was out of her hands. She had warned him about Imoen's mental state. Her father was not the sort of man who would ever dream of taking advantage even if he wanted to, and she was convinced that he didn't. She had never seen anyone so devoted as he was to Jaheira.

"Immy!" Arrow pleaded sadly as the other girl barged past her. She was about to go after her, ready to drag her back physically if necessary but as she looked up she saw Jaheira watching from the shadows. The druid caught Arrow's eye and silently shook her head.

So Arrow stood aside. What else could she do?

"This is all my fault!" Arrow fretted, when Imoen had closed the door. She was tugging at her short hair in distress. "I encouraged her to go for it, I told her sometimes people aren't right for each other. I thought she meant me and Rasaad, not you and Khalid!"

"It is not your fault. You can tell her that Khalid isn't interested until your tongue falls out from exhaustion but she won't accept it until she hears it from him," Jaheira said harshly. Her eyes were narrowed at the door. Arrow assumed that she intended to stand there to see what Khalid would do, but so complete was her faith in her husband that she shrugged and walked away.

They returned to the main barracks. Jaheira resumed tending to the casualties. Arrow crawled into her bedroll, trying to ignore Dorn's breath which she could smell from three feet away, and tried to sleep. She thought about Irenicus's fingernail and how the horrible thing must have spontaneously dropped off. It made her shudder, though she could not pity him.

In the pantry, Khalid had made himself a sort of nest in a blanket. There was no room to lie down properly and he had just been curling up when he heard the noises from outside. On the one hand he felt terrible for wishing this vulnerable young girl away. Yet on the other, the survival of everyone in Bridgefort including her rested on how he handled the negotiations come dawn. There were not many hours left.

"Sleeping alone?" asked Imoen.

"Indeed," Khalid replied pensively. "I've not had a p- p- proper rest in days and these negotiations are going to need handling with a c- clear head."

His hint, his very gentle hint, was that he would quite like Imoen to put off her questions for another time, but the girl simply smiled at him and loosed her hair. Remembering what Arrow had said about Irenicus interfering with her brain, Khalid mistakenly assumed that Imoen wanted him to examine her head for damage. Feeling that this job would be better suited to his wife, he strode over to her and put his head very close to hers, peering into her hairline.

"I don't see any d- d- damage – Mmmph!" Khalid let out a muffled cry of shock. Imoen's hands had flown behind his head and pulled him into a deep kiss. He was so startled that for a moment he failed to pull away as his mind tried to make sense of what the hells was happening. Her lips, soft but aggressive, moved over his own which were frozen.

He pulled back, horrified, jaw brushing the floor. Khalid looked left and right half-expecting, and desperately hoping, that Arrow and Jaheira were going to jump out from behind the shelves and tell him it was some sort of wind-up. When he looked back to Imoen, the girl had unlaced her tunic. It slid from her shoulders and onto the floor. She was not wearing anything underneath.

"I- Imoen!" Khalid squeaked in terror.

"You don't have to say anything," Imoen replied softly, slipping one arm over his shoulder so that her bare breasts pressed against his shirt. "Just stay with me tonight."

"N- n- n- n-" Khalid stammered, so alarmed that he could not even spit a two letter word out. Even were it not for Jaheira, Imoen was the same age as his adopted daughter! He had never looked at her in that way, not even a little.

The half-elf backed up into a small pantry table, until it dug uncomfortably into the back of his thighs. His eyes were darting in panic, desperately trying to think of a face-saving way to escape this situation.

"I- I see what Arrow m- m- meant!" he gasped, as the pink-haired girl advanced on him. "O- obviously you're very c- c- confused, but don't worry! We'll get my wife," (he laid a heavy emphasis on the word 'wife'), "to take a look at you and-"

"I only need you to look at me," Imoen insisted, pushing Khalid back so that he was sitting on the table and climbing topless onto his lap. She stroked his trembling chest and leaned down to kiss him again. The next second she felt pain shoot through her legs and hand. The half-elf had forcefully pushed her off him and she landed heavily on the stone floor of the pantry.

"Let me go!" Khalid's voice was suddenly raised. Arrow sat up in her bedroll and groaned. She had been silently petitioning Ilmater that Imoen would regain her senses and it would not come to this. "G- G- GET OFF ME! I'M MARRIED!"

He jumped over Imoen and fled the room, leaving his armour behind him. The commander of Bridgefort emerged, in only his shirt and in shock in the barracks, to a room full of people staring at him. Arrow felt almost as sorry for him as she did for Imoen. She detested being the centre of attention regardless of the reason, and it was hard to imagine a more mortifying situation. She got up and padded over.

"Must be something about gingers," the fatigued wizard defending the fort from incoming explosives muttered sourly, before refocussing what energies he had left.

"Sorry Dad I tried to talk her out of it," Arrow groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'd better go look after her. You take my bedroll."

"Um. C- c- c- could you g- get my c- clothes?" Khalid requested awkwardly. He was shaken and stammering far worse than usual. It was not a good sign for his negotiating the surrender. "I d- don't want to g- g- go back in there."

"I will get them," snapped Jaheira. Khalid looked at his wife with such guilty, pleading eyes that Arrow thought the poor man's head might explode from anxiety. She was nervous about what sort of state they would find Imoen in, and was not sure that Jaheira's input was likely to be constructive at this point. Yet after what had just happened there was no denying that the druid had a right to say her piece. They found Imoen crying on the floor, though fortunately she'd retained the presence of mind to put her tunic back on. Jaheira stepped around her angrily gathering her husband's belongings. She turned back at the door and asked harshly; "Do you see now? I have been very tolerant but this fantasy of yours has to end right now. From now on, you stay away from him, do you understand me?"

"Yes," Imoen wept.

Arrow crouched down beside the sobbing chimera. In Jaheira's place she might have made more allowances for Imoen's state of mind. A mad wizard had, after all, punctured a hole in her psyche. Still, she could not blame her parents for their reactions. There was nothing to do now but try to comfort Imoen and keep her out of the Harpers' way until they could escape from this wretched place. Luckily, thanks to Skie, it would not be long.

Back in the camp the army was being mobilized though not, as Khalid's little family supposed, with any intention of waiting peacefully on the road.

"Sergeant Candlekeep! Corporal Duncan!" Corwin barked.

"Sir?" her officers replied in unison.

"Assume your positions. It's time."

"Yes Sir."

Seven covered wagons were lined up at the front of the camp. The shire horses pulling them clomped their sturdy hooves and snorted impatiently. With a hollered order from Bence, the brown leather casings were pulled back to reveal four cart-mounted catapults and three ballistas.

There was a flurry of activity in the camp as the soldiers were called to form ranks. Those few who had been warned in advance to maintain secrecy, were moving to their tasks. Extra horses were being hitched to the siege weapons to pull them quickly. Boulders and giant bolts inscribed with magical runes were having the last activating incantations chanted over them before being loaded. They had to be ready to fire the instant they came within sight of the blockade.

Nobody packed anything, the entire camp, provisions and all, was to be abandoned. The crusaders were to have no warning of what was coming. All of the horses which were not pulling weapons were mounted by those trained to ride them.

The army was split into three divisions. The mounted warriors and archers, led by Corwin, went first, shooting down any crusader scouts or sentries they saw before they could warn the camp. Bence, accompanied by Skie, took command of the siege engines. They rumbled along far faster than their usual speed. The men operating them were pulling them back and priming them to fire even as the carts that carried them were still moving. It was a tricky and dangerous operation. A bump in the road might have caused any one of them to misfire, and launch their deadly load into the archers ahead.

Freya led the foot soldiers, who unusually were positioned to the rear. For Skie's plan to work the crusade must have no warning, and that meant that the ballistics had to launch the instant they were within sight of the camp. After the first round, Freya and the infantry would charge around them and storm Caelar's followers. For once, to Corwin's immense relief, the Hero was taking her situation seriously.

Dawn came and Khalid awoke, having managed a few hours sleep with help from some potions from his wife. The defenders raised a white flag over the battlements and the bombardment from the crusade immediately ceased. There was a bustle of activity and a great armoured warrior emerged from among their ranks to parley across the moat. Khalid hugged his wife and daughter for reassurance, then stepped onto the battlements.

"I am the Barghest. I have the honour of leading the Blinding White Battalion," the crusader commander grunted. "Who speaks for Bridgefort?"

Neither stammering father nor his charisma-lacking daughter had any confidence in public speaking and Khalid was turning noticeably pale. The Barghest spotted it and grinned threateningly.

"It's ok Khalid," Jaheira smiled encouragingly behind him. "You can do this."

"Yeah, you've got this Dad," added Arrow.

Khalid removed his helmet, letting his fiery hair stream in the breeze and took a deep breath.

"My n- name is Khalid," he said, successfully controlling his fear. In fact with his full plate armour and shock of red hair he cut quite a heroic figure, stutter non-withstanding. "I speak for Bridgefort. I'm prepared to surrender the keep to you, provided you let those within go free."

"You're hardly in a position to negotiate!" sneered the Barghest.

"A- a- a- a…" Khalid began. Arrow bit her lip and screwed her eyes shut. The crusaders were snickering at him. He squeezed his lips together and took a deep breath. "A- actually I think you'll find we are. Captain Corwin and her army are an hour's march away. They outnumber the B- Blinding White B- B- Battalion ten to one and they have the Hero of Baldur's Gate with them. Y- y- you are the ones in no position to n- n- negotiate!"

"Ah," the Barghest said delicately. "We were hoping you didn't know that."

"The defenders will leave their supplies behind," said Khalid. "I and my companions w- will retain our weapons. I mean to ensure the defenders s- safety."

"Very well," the Barghest agreed after a pause. "A fair deal for all I suppose, though I confess I relished the thought of a battle with the enemies of the Shining Lady. Perhaps another time."

"P- perhaps," replied Khalid.

The drawbridge rattled slowly down. Khalid tensed beside her, and Arrow could tell that he did not fully trust the crusaders to keep their word. A trickle of sweat ran down her own forehead. If the honour of this Barghest failed, there was nothing to prevent the Blinding White Battalion from slaughtering them all. As it rattled below eyelevel, they got a look at their enemy. There were a lot of them, but their weapons were sheathed and there were no magical shimmers to suggest that their mages had primed them for battle. That was a good sign.

Suddenly there was an almighty explosion. The acrid stench of smoke and dust filled her nose and stung her eyes. Rage and terror flooded through her. The bastards had betrayed them! They were going to murder the defenders and the innocent people in the fort. Her first arrow was already notched in her bow when she realised that the fire was in front of her and not behind.

"No…" she whispered horrified.

The crusaders were starting to turn around like befuddled ants. Some of them seemed to think that one of their own projectiles had exploded prematurely. Then a burning rune-ball came hurtling through the air. There were screams of panic as people scrambled to get out of its path and there was a second explosion, closer now. Dozens of crusaders were blasted in all directions, knocking their companions over as they struggled to flee.

"BASTARDS!" screamed the Barghest, rounding on them.

Arrow looked helplessly to Khalid, and the firelight flickering in his wide dark eyes. A muscle tightened in his jaw and he drew his sword.

"Raise the drawbridge!" Khalid ordered. "Pull it up!"

The word was passed to the men on the roof, but not quickly enough. Heavy armoured crusaders leaped onto the partially open drawbridge, weighing it down and sending it crashing the rest of the way to the ground.

Flaming Fist explosives were raining thick and fast now. The crusaders were completely unprepared. All of their heavy artillery was still aimed at Bridgefort and they were taking too long to turn them around. The commanders were hastily attempting to regroup them and form ranks, but the deafening explosions and blinding smoke was making this difficult. Their men could not hear them and many of the mercenaries were already fleeing in panic.

The wizard who had been maintaining the wards against siege weaponry hastily began to set them up again. The remaining defenders found themselves locked in a brutal battle for the entrance with the crusaders. Arrow could see their faces, their anger at having been double-crossed. There were hobgoblins among them and berserkers too. She would not bank on them holding back their rage from the farmers and children cowering behind the fort gates.

"Damn you Freya," she cried, and locked an arrow into her bow. She fired into the eye of one of the crusaders, through her helmet, as she charged across the bridge. It was an excellent shot, straight through the eyepiece of her helmet. The woman fell and was shoved unceremoniously from the drawbridge by her allies. She hit the water with a large splash, and her armour dragged her straight to the bottom of the moat.

Dorn expected the Ilmatari to curl up in a corner and sob, but having been forced to fight, the ranger was far more lethal than he would have believed. The only innocents in this were the Bridgefort defenders and the families they were guarding. She would not allow the crusaders to pass the drawbridge. Her next shot aimed high, and for a moment Dorn wondered what she was doing. She released the string with a twang and sent it over the heads of the first three rows of attackers.

A great explosion, similar to those raining down on the crusaders from the main Fist army shook the ground slightly. Arrow had sent one of Coran's arrows of detonation into the enemy ranks. It left a modest crater surrounded by a gruesome halo of blood and bodyless limbs.

"Ilmater forgive me," she whispered as she screwed her eyes shut and released a second, and a third.

Dorn was almost impressed. Perhaps there was hope for this daughter of Bhaal after all. He and Khalid also had their hands full. The frontline crusaders, undeterred by the carnage behind them, were putting up a reasonable fight. For all his apparent timidity, when it came to battle the stuttering half-elf was proving almost as lethal as his adopted daughter. He plunged his sword into a crusader's abdomen, kicked him into the lake to drown and moved seamlessly onto the next one.

There was only room to cross the bridge a few at a time, so Jaheira was hanging back behind Minsc. The berserker was having a grand time, hacking and slashing the evil enemy without a moral qualm in his head. In his own way, Dorn mused, the dullard's enjoyment of fighting and bloodshed was equal to his own. The only real difference was that the bald Rashemen had picked the opposite side. Jaheira, like the rest of her family, seemed to possess a ruthless streak when the occasion called for it. She was summoning vines that twisted about the crusader's ankles and dragged them into the moat, where the weight of their metal plated armour caused them to sink. Some succeeded in unbuckling it and swimming to shore, but without their mail and weapons they were no further use in the battle.

"Keep it down!" the wizard maintaining the wards was muttering frantically. "Another wizard is fighting me. I need to concentrate! Damn it! Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!"

There was a thunderous explosion, as a vast sphere of tainted rock, glowing with malevolent magic struck the side of the fort. The few defenders left on the battlements died on impact but from the site where it struck cracks began to spread in the brickwork. From behind Jaheira's party came screams and the sound of tumbling rubble.

"The fort is falling down!" bellowed Khalid urgently. "Clear the bridge, it's the only way out!"

Self-preservation forgotten, the defenders began to hack and slash indiscriminately, forcing their way forward across the bridge and beyond. They had to clear room to allow the civilians behind them to escape the fort before it came crashing down on their heads. Arrow had no time or space to shoot and drew her little-used short sword. She was useless with it but there was no other option. Wailing children, carried or dragged by their parents were following them across the bridge. If all she could do was place herself between them and the Crusaders' swords then that would have to do.

Things were going better on the other side of the battlefield. Freya was turning out to be an effective commander and her officers morale was being boosted by her charismatic presence. In the chaos and smoke, the Hero's escaping golden hair whipped around. The obnoxious volume of her voice was serving her soldiers well in this situation, because unlike the crusader soldiers the Flaming Fist could actually hear their leader's commands.

The Barghest, who was locked in battle with Dorn and Khalid knew it was over when he saw her coming. She was alternating between using her twin bastard swords to cut down the Crusaders, and Sarevok's huge broadsword to disable their catapults. He also knew that surrender would be pointless. By this point Freya had a mixed reputation. She was humane in that she gave her enemies a quick and clean end, but once you crossed swords with her that end was more or less guaranteed. She would never make the mistake of allowing them to retreat and join forces with Caelar's main army.

The Barghest heaved his sword at Khalid who had to hunker under his buckler, and slammed Dorn back several paces with the flat of his shield. Dorn grinned eagerly, and lunged forward again tusks glinting. Freya was approaching now, flipping her right-hand sword around skilfully. She charged forward, as did Dorn and Khalid, like a pack of wolves descending on their prey. The Barghest fought to the bitter end, but against such numbers he had no real hope of landing a meaningful blow. The three of them cut him down, and Freya and Dorn both raised their swords for the killing blow. For a moment Arrow thought that they might actually fight each other for the honour. She was so furious with the werewolf that she half-hoped they would. Yet Freya graciously bowed Dorn on and let him deliver the final chop.

Her own party were following behind her. Viconia was priming her leader with as many defensive spells as she could summon so that Freya appeared to glow with a fuzzy blue aura. Edwin, who did not believe that there was a problem in the world that could not be fixed with fireballs was adding to the devastating carnage, helped by Baeloth who was watching the surfacers battle with the detached interest of a tourist. Rasaad was not contributing, but rather limping along behind. The dragon fire scars were hardening over his swollen legs leaving him near immobile.

"You must be Khalid!" Freya barked amicably, tossing her right-sword into her left hand and shaking both Khalid's and the blade he was carrying. "Excellent work keeping the fort standing. Just a few stragglers left to mop up now and I'd say we've won the day!"

"You n- never had any intention of surrendering!" Khalid retorted angrily growing red in the face. "There are ch- children in there, you gambled with all our l- l- lives!"

"Everyone is out!" Dynaheir cried, running up behind Khalid breathlessly. "Minsc and the defenders are protecting the farmers but though hast kept them out of danger. Thou art to be commended." She smiled at Khalid admiringly and Dorn even more so.

"See?" grinned Freya, gesturing to the human abattoir around her as though slaughter were a good thing. "It all worked out fine. It was Skie's idea. We were just planning to march in and raze the place to the ground, but this way the crusaders were facing the wrong way and hadn't even prepared their spells or quaffed their potions. We can't have had more than a dozen casualties on our side. Isn't she amazing?"

Arrow made to slap Freya. She raised her hand but it froze. She glared at it, and then at Freya's Red Wizard assuming that he had blocked the blow with magic. Edwin, however, merely shrugged. She tried again but her hand shuddered to a halt an inch from the werewolf's face.

"You can't do it," said Freya. "I can't either. Bits of our souls are tied together in Imoen, and she won't let us hurt each other. Believe me, it was not for lack of trying. That scumbag Eric was lucky I couldn't touch him myself."

Arrow made a shrill noise of overpowering, impotent fury. Nothing about Eric's stay in Freya's care could be described as 'lucky.' In fact it had further weakened him and contributed in no small way to his death. Freya might not have hurt him directly, but the abuse he suffered from her friends in the Flaming Fist more than compensated.

"Freya, you went along with Skie's stupid plan?" Arrow panted, getting a grip on herself.

"Which one?" asked Freya, sheepishly.

"They were both terrible! The attack on the crusader camp at least made military sense, even if it was evil, but bringing Imoen to Bridgefort so that she could make an idiot of herself in front of Khalid? Why Freya? Why would you do that? Imoen is supposed to be your friend!"

"Skie was... um... very persuasive." The werewolf at least had the decency to look ashamed of herself.

Arrow pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Please tell me you are not implying that you're sharing a bedroll with the Grand Duke's daughter," she groaned.

"Not implying, more sort of stating."

"You are an idiot."

"Yeah, probably, but Skie isn't!" Freya answered, with doggishly misplaced loyalty. Her voice remained calm but her hands were starting to tremble. Unconditional canine love directed at any human was going to be problematic. There were reasons that werewolves preferred to live in packs with each other. Yet in Skie's case, the semi-reciprocated romance coupled with approaching full moon was making her increasingly edgy.

"Perhaps the rivvil princess is less insipid than I thought," Viconia whispered to Edwin and Baeloth, who both nodded in agreement. "I begin to understand what our leader sees in her."

Arrow looked around at the bodies in horror. She had started to think of Skie almost as a friend. How badly she had misjudged her if she was capable of this. But then what about herself? Those arrows of detonation that Coran had given her. How many of the dead and dying writhing around her feet were her own work? A dozen at least. In the heat of battle it had been a logical decision- them or the people in the fort whom they were trying to kill. Yet now she was a mass murderer, every bit as bad as Freya.

"Did you know?" she asked Rasaad. To her relief the monk shook his head. She could not have born it if he had betrayed her as well.

"Thou art well meaning and a credit to your faith Ilmatari," said Dynaheir, as Minsc nodded in sage agreement. "But thine friend acted for the greater good."

Arrow bit her lip. She trusted Dynaheir's judgement and could not imagine Minsc ever aligning himself with evil. She would have to talk to Skie and discover why she had done this. If for no other reason than it would let her put off having to think about the people she had slain. As she watched a charred body twitch feebly, silent tears started tumbling down her face.


	30. The Dust Settles

The aftermath of war was terrible. The closest Arrow had ever seen to anything like this were the scenes after battling the Dark Moon cult. There had been a great deal of death then too, but she had been less directly responsible for it. She was not the only one hearing the whimpers of the dying and shaking. Baldur's Gate had been at peace for a long time and for the younger recruits to the Flaming Fist, this was their first taste of battle. Freya was patting a young lad whose spots shone like red beacons from his milk-white skin and telling him reassuringly that his old nan would be proud of him.

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," breathed Arrow.

"Me too," said Skie, looking around the battlefield with a faintly traumatized expression. "But the Flaming Fist are my people, the crusaders aren't. I have to do what is best for the soldiers of Baldur's Gate. I understand that you don't understand."

"I don't," replied Arrow, feeling equally shell-shocked. "And I'm glad I'll never have to. Are you… ok?"

There was a deafening rumble as the roof of Bridgefort caved in. Several people screamed but there was nobody left alive inside. The cursed boulder was still working its malevolent magic into the masonry. Great chunks of rock were peeling away from the fort and landing with heaving splashes into the lake. A great cloud of greyish-black dust rose from it, accompanied by the smell of sawdust and smouldering timber.

Skie burst into tears in Arrow's arms. She patted the noblewoman's head unable to think of anything to say. What Skie had done was terrible, but letting the Blinding White battalion reunite with Caelar might have been much worse. Especially if they had succeeded in blowing up the bridge. Then the Flaming Fist could never have reached Dragonspear in time and their allies would have been butchered. Arrow could not say if they had done the right thing.

The ranger cast her eyes over the bleak prize they had fought for. How appropriate that it stood as a monument to the rival gods of murder. Boareskyr bridge was a vast, ornate affair, with enough room for the Fists to cross a dozen abreast. The bridge was punctuated by large stone pillars carved with ornate designs showing scenes from the Time of Troubles when the gods walked Faerun as mortals. Someone, possibly the Bhaal cultists, had put a great deal of effort into engraving these pillars, but they had been left to the elements and were largely obscured by green river algae. At each end of the bridge stood a huge statue, thirty foot tall. Facing them across the water was a laughing lunatic carrying a strange sword. He must be the mad god, Cyric. Standing with his stone back to them was his ancient enemy, and Arrow and Freya's father; Bhaal.

"The bridge!" someone yelled suddenly, and like a chorus of seagulls more and more people took up the cry. "The bridge! They're going to blow up Boareskyr!"

"Damn, damn!" yelled Freya and pelted for the bridge, transforming on the way to get there faster. The crusaders had placed barrels of explosives across the middle of the crossing. Apparently the Barghest had meant to blow it up after the fort surrendered. This comforted Arrow a little, since it meant that this slaughter had almost certainly prevented another one, but it would all be for nothing if they managed to blow the bridge. The last surviving crusaders assembled there and tried to block Freya long enough for the mage to blow the barrels. It was a bold move. They were very close to the deadly explosives and on the wrong side of the crossing. If they succeeded it would be suicide for them.

Freya swiped hard with her broad paws, flinging a pair of the Crusaders from the bridge and into the raging waters below. They sank without a trace, but there was no time to fight the other warriors. Ignoring their swords hacking at her furry back, Freya grasped the mage in her jaws to prevent her igniting the barrels. She shook her back and forth like a dog shaking a rabbit until in the end the woman went limp. Viconia and Rasaad were too far to join in the fight (the monk was in no state to be useful in any case) but Edwin and Baeloth could cast spells on the Crusaders from a distance. Baeloth charmed one into fighting his comrades while Edwin summoned a pack of hobgoblins to his leader's aid.

Fearing that Edwin might resort to his usual pyromaniac tactics, Freya began heaving the barrels off the bridge. They bobbed downstream, leaching their black powder into the water, but they were of no further risk to anything but fish. Bloodied and exhausted, the werewolf dragged herself to the edge of the bridge and transformed. Her wounds left a glistening trail behind her like a giant red slug. She transformed back and collapsed, delirious and panting.

The werewolf was too preoccupied with pain to notice that the half-dead mage's lips were still moving. Her hand shot out suddenly from her blood-drenched sleeve and as her incantation completed her palm glowed. Something tucked into the shadow of one of the bridge supports started glowing and shaking violently. Minsc and Dynaheir had reached the bridge where they tackled the last remaining Crusader. To Arrow's horror, they too started to run to help Freya.

"You missed a barrel!" Arrow screamed. "You missed a barrel!"

But nobody could hear her. Eyes screwed shut from pain, Freya yelled for a healer. Jaheira and Viconia came running but M'Khiin was closer. Her tiny goblin mascot scurried between the legs of the remaining fighters and out onto the bridge. Arrow was running toward them crying out at the top of her lungs but there was no way she could reach it in time. There was only one thing that might help. She notched a flaming arrow and sent it in a high arch over the bridge.

It got at least some of the fighters' attention as it soared over their heads and landed half-a-foot from the semi-concealed barrel. Minsc seized Dynaheir and leapt from the bridge. They would have been rapidly swept downstream by the current, had Dorn not had the presence of mind to tie a rope around the inflatable belt and toss it to them. As he hauled them to shore, the witch watched his rippling muscles with an interested expression.

Yet Freya and M'khiin, who were preoccupied with healing the Hero's gaping wounds, failed to notice the imminent danger. One barrel alone was not sufficient to knock out more than a few chunks of rock and mortar from the huge bridge. Still, it blasted Freya back and into the statue of her father, bathing him in his daughter's blood. Her spine hit his knee with a hideous crack and she slumped, screaming in agony but still breathing.

M'khiin was not so fortunate. Arrow skidded to a halt in the grass at the edge of the bridge as a tiny green hand landed sadly at her feet. The rest of the goblin was spread out in a wide circle around the bridge, while the river swept her lower half away. Edwin, who had been closer, wiped sticky jade goblin blood from his beard with a disgusted moan. Viconia was covered too, but Freya was her priority. Saving her protector was more important than hygiene.

Mizhena came running up behind Arrow breathlessly. Apparently she too had been rushing to help Freya, but since Viconia had got there first she had evidently decided that it wasn't worth bothering. The cleric did not like Freya much. Arrow picked up the limp little hand and sighed heavily.

"M'Khiin died in battle," Mizhena said stoutly. "We should celebrate her good fortune, but I fear with two more healers down we are not so lucky. I'll need help to tend the wounded."

"My w- w-ife has considerable s- skill in this area," volunteered Khalid, "And my daughter and I will help where we c- c- can."

The two adventuring parties gathered around Freya. Arrow was grateful that Imoen was with the Bridgefort civilians. Seeing one of her Bhaalspawn this badly injured was a guaranteed trigger to set her off again. Freya was whimpering under Viconia's hands. There were limits to how much pain was enjoyable and they were far over that line. Freya had always been theoretically aware that she might die on one of her adventures, but now for the first time it really hit home. Feeling like she ought to say something more meaningful than 'ow' with her last words, she spoke sincerely to the first person her eyes landed on.

"Sorry about helping Imoen get into Bridgefort," she croaked at Khalid. "That was a real dick move."

"I- I- I- yes!" Khalid managed finally. He turned red and cast a worried look at his wife. Jaheira snorted and rolled her eyes. Despite the werewolf lying on death's door, the Calishite warrior was suddenly struck by a rare swelling of indignant rage. "Yes, it b- b- bloody well was!"

The werewolf's eyes were unfocussed. She tried to sit up to talk to Khalid, reopening a wound that Viconia was halfway through healing. The cleric muttered a curse in drow which lost something in translation, but broadly involved some of the spikier Underdark fauna and her squirming patient's anus.

"If I die Khalid, it was an honour to fight with you. You're a braver man than you give yourself credit for," Freya mumbled.

"Th- thank you?" Khalid stammered, his momentary surge of anger subsiding.

"And not just because you married Jaheira." The werewolf grinned at him, and blood bubbled out from between her teeth as she lost consciousness. Arrow rolled her eyes and walked away. She was no further use here and perhaps there was someone, somewhere among this pile of human carnage who could still be helped.

As Viconia continued to heal Freya, (a far easier task when she was not moving,) Khalid watched on suspiciously.

"You still don't trust me, do you?" asked Viconia with an amused smirk.

As it happened, she had given Khalid every possible reason imaginable not to trust her. Insulting his wife and suggesting that Jaheira 'lend him' to Arrow were among the lesser offences. His back still bore the scar from her flaming sword. Even after they forgave her for carelessly stabbing him in the back she had sneered at them, picked fights with Arrow and been so generally unpleasant to be around that in the end his wife had flat-out refused to have anything further to do with her… and that was before she had tried to murder Arowan. Still, Viconia had a highly selective memory, and chose to believe that they were all just unfairly biased against drow.

"I- I wanted to Viconia," he sighed. "I r- r- really did. We gave you so many chances, and you paid us back by trying to murder our daughter."

"You really are an insipid little man! Well you don't get a vote! Freya picked me to be her cleric and I will stay for as long as she will allow me," snapped Viconia. Despite her lack of regard for the half-elf's opinion, she was offended. After everything she had done since leaving Baldur's Gate she had still not proven herself to these people! "It is not as though I have any choice in the matter. Though at least I no longer have to lick the boots of your mongrel wife as part of the bargain, and that is something I suppose."

Khalid shook his head and scratched his stubble awkwardly. He was beyond drained at this point and how his body continued to hold itself up was a mystery. For a hot meal and an uninterrupted rest he'd be tempted to sell his own sword arm.

"I'd s- say you were burning bridges but you did that a long time ago Viconia," he sighed. "This is more p- pissing on the ashes for good m- m- measure."

"How did you enjoy Imoen?" asked Viconia sweetly. Khalid flushed scarlet. "She's not quite the firm handler you're used to but then some men do have a thing for virgin pu-"

"Silence you perverted stoat!" Jaheira snapped angrily.

"I seem to remember you warning your daughter once about virginal innocence appealing to a certain type of man," Viconia went on spitefully. "It didn't occur to me at the time that you meant your own husband! Still, I don't think Arowan takes your advice very seriously. I hear she dropped her knickers for Coran at the first opportunity she got."

Khalid's armoured hand clenched into a fist, like an armadillo curling up. For once Jaheira was the one putting a placating hand on his shoulder, instead of the other way around.

"Never mind," Viconia looked up from Freya's unconscious body and smiled, red eyes twinkling. "If you were too impotent to deflower little Imoen, I'm sure Coran will be happy to do the honours when we get back to Baldur's Gate. He's obviously not very selective about who he… EEEK!"

Arrow looked up from the Crusader whose gushing wound she was attempting to plug. Despite her guilt over the detonating arrows, the blood all up her arms and the trauma of war, what happened next was to take its place amongst the most treasured memories of her mortal life.

"Minsc, NO!" yelled Dynaheir, but it was too late. The berserker had lifted the crouching drow up over his head and was carrying her, kicking and squealing to the edge of the bridge. He dropped her onto the wall at the foot of Bhaal's statue, leapt up beside her and promptly booted her off.

Arowan had been quite fond of Minsc before this incident. Yet watching his broad, studded foot connect so satisfyingly with Viconia's ample bottom made her fall into a sort of platonic love. The cleric squealed and toppled forward, face first. A smile of pure pleasure spread over Arrow's strained face as the drow's arms wind-milled helplessly and she tumbled into the shallow water at the edge of the bridge. Moments later, she re-emerged, oozing mud and furious.

Arrow's unfortunately maimed patient had to cough and raise his hand politely to reclaim her attention. It was with shaking ribs and an inappropriately delighted expression that she ripped strips of fabric from her cloak to tie about his wounds. When she uncorked a healing potion for him, she almost spilled it she was laughing so hard. She had to feed it to him very discretely though. Wasting healing potions was not permitted even for treatment of their own people's injuries. Not unless they were very serious. She would carry the scar on her cheek that Viconia had given her for the rest of her life as a result. Using a precious potion on a Crusader probably qualified as treason in Captain Corwin's book.

Skie was still shaken, and becoming more so the more she looked at their fallen enemy. Defending Baldur's Gate was part and parcel of the nobility's job but there was not, she was concluding, anything particularly glorious about it. The way her more martially-inclined peers went on about it made battle seem glamorous. Yet she suspected that they would find it a lot less so if they were on the front lines and not a mile or so behind the action like her father, moving toy soldiers around their little maps.

When Freya came around, the first thing she did was call Minsc over to haul her to her feet. She staggered painfully, against Viconia's advice, through the carnage to Skie. The Flaming Fist were ransacking the provisions now and Corwin was struggling to keep some sort of order in the aftermath. Looted grog, food and personal effects were being plundered freely, and to be fair the troops had earned their reward. Still, there might be valuable information about the crusade, letters and documents, being lost in the celebrations. Bence was helping her to herd the other officers but Freya got a pass on account of nearly dying.

"Skie!" she called, hobbling over, half-carried by Minsc. "Skie, don't you fucking listen to Arrow. The woman has a martyr complex. These Crusaders volunteered for this war, most of our lads only signed up to be police officers. And they literally want to open the gates of hell! We're the good guys here; end of story."

The smaller woman nodded and sniffled and then started to cry again. Freya couldn't fathom why. Skie's idea had been brilliant, the attack a great success. They had lost only a handful of people when they had expected to sacrifice close to a hundred. Of course she was sorry to lose her talking goblin, M'Khiin had been one of a kind, but to save the bridge at so small a cost… Skie ought to be blind drunk by now in celebration.

"Boo says that you are a very clever lady!" declared Minsc earnestly.

"Thanks Minsc," said Skie quietly. "That means a lot."

"The shaven orangutan is correct for once. It was a cunning strategy," Edwin remarked, almost admiringly. He was drumming his long clever fingers together and scanning the battlefield for any injured crusaders in need of a good fireball. "Though I would not listen to anything else the braindead oaf has to say."

"Minsc hears you evil wizard, and you may be right," smiled the Berserker, a minacious twinkle in his eye. "But what he lacks in his head he makes up for in his boots. Ask Viconia if you don't believe me."

Imoen hugged the young aristocrat sympathetically. She was still feeling very shaky herself, though fortunately she had not heard Viconia's comments to Khalid, and nobody felt like explaining to her why the drow was head to toe in river muck.

"Thou hast done the right thing," Dynaheir assured Skie. "Tis not always easy."

Unfortunately, that evening they were joined by one person who decidedly didn't agree.

"WHO GAVE MY DAUGHTER PERMISSION TO PLAN AN ASSAULT?"

Bence, Corwin and Freya stood to attention in a line, staring firmly forward and avoiding eye contact with Duke Silvershield. Skie was slouched to one side, glaring at him like a mutinous teenager. He was pacing up and down, cloak swishing. His right hand was on his ceremonial sword and his left was stroking his beard as though he were mulling over which of his three senior officers he should decapitate first.

"I did, Sir," said Freya.

"We both did," Captain Corwin croaked, slightly defiantly. This was unexpectedly brave, Freya acknowledged. Corwin had no greater mentor than the Duke, who had promoted her rapidly through the ranks as his own protegee. "It was a good idea. Had those crusaders retreated across Boareskyr Bridge, best-case-scenario we fight a much larger army at Dragonspear Castle. Worst-case-scenario they would have blown this bridge up too and we'd have lost the war."

"I have always respected your opinion Captain," he said begrudgingly. Corwin saluted, and the Duke added, "I strongly suggest you do not make me start reconsidering that."

He glanced meaningfully at Freya, who stiffened angrily but said nothing.

"It appears that Corporal Duncan is the only one who can be trusted to supervise my little girl and make sure she comes home intact," the Duke went on. It took every ounce of Freya's Selunite self-restraint to keep a straight face at this statement. Even if Skie had been 'intact' when she started hanging around with Bence, she certainly wasn't anymore. "Officer Duncan you are personally responsible for Skie from now on. You will keep her from going on any more solo-adventures and see to it that she does not further disgrace the name of Silvershield with her dishonourable schemes."

"But Sir-"

"AND HEAVEN HELP YOU IF YOU DON'T!"

"Yes Sir," Bence saluted, defeated.

"As for you, 'Sergeant' Candlekeep," he began rounding on Freya.

"Leave her alone!" Skie cried. Freya screwed her grey eyes shut, wishing on Selune's stars that the other woman would keep her mouth shut for once. There was nothing she could possibly say in her defence that would make things better, but plenty she could do to make it worse.

"Skie don't…" Freya began, but the Duke cut her off.

"Did I give you permission to speak?"

"No Sir," replied Freya.

The Duke sheathed his sword and took a long, unsteady breath. He too was making an effort to control his temper, and things might have settled down on their own, had Skie not been determined to have the last word.

"You're just jealous of Freya because our people love her and they hate you!" howled Skie.

"Shut up girl!" bellowed Silvershield, his pointed face turning purple with fury.

"You whinge and moan but you never do anything about it!" Skie screamed, losing all self-restraint. "You are an incompetent leader and you are going to destroy what's left of our family! You should listen to me, I know what I'm doing, but you won't because you're pig-headed and stupid!"

"ENOUGH!" screamed Duke Silvershield. "Corporal Duncan, you will escort my daughter to her tent immediately, then report back here and put Sergeant Candlekeep in the stocks until sundown!"

"With respect Sir," Corwin began.

The Duke marched up to her and leaned in so that his pointed nose was tip-to-tip with the Captain's.

"I would keep quiet if I were you," he said in a low voice. "Unless you want to join her."

"But Sir, we don't _have_ any stocks," finished Corwin, resolutely.

"IMPROVISE!" Duke Silvershield thundered in such an ear-splitting roar that officers heads shot up from half way across the camp.

In the end, Freya was bundled uncomfortably into one of the chicken crates. At six-foot-three and bulky, the wire mesh dug into her skin and her long blonde hairs kept catching on it and pulling out. Tradition dictated that the soldiers throw rotted vegetables at her but food was a precious commodity and nobody felt like wasting it. Instead, to humour the Duke, the officers reluctantly pelted her with river-silt.

It was a feeble, half-hearted effort and what few jeers there could be heard were reserved for the Duke himself. On the whole the Flaming Fist had liked Skie's strategy for taking Bridgefort, mainly because almost everybody had come out of it alive. The Duke's objection that it was dishonourable to trick the Crusaders was not appreciated by the rank and file soldiers. Not least because Silvershield had not fought in the battle himself. They valued their own lives rather more than his honour. Skie was confined to her tent and banned from the victory celebrations but anonymous hands kept sliding under the canvas of her tent, handing her snacks and wineskins until she ended up with rather more than she could eat and drink.

After a while, Viconia shuffled over to the cage on the pretence of checking on her patient. She took care to compare the river silt covering both of them, pointing out how it was the drow and the werewolf who had ended up like this and commenting how strange it was that it always seemed to end up that way. Freya did not reply but her grey eyes narrowed with resentment.

At sundown they released Freya. She got to her feet painfully, having been in pretty poor shape before. She was too desperate to return to bed and sleep to pay much heed to the whispers of encouragement from her fellow officers. Not to mention with full moon only a few days away, she had to find time to meditate with Rasaad. But first she needed to see Corwin.

After checking that the Duke had retreated safely to his own quarters she made a hasty effort to tidy herself up in the dark river water and presented herself at the Captain's tent.

"Captain Corwin? Er… Schael?" she asked, stepping inside quietly.

"Sergeant," Corwin acknowledged her crisply.

"I wanted to thank you for before. With the Duke. I know he isn't happy with you," Freya acknowledged guiltily.

"You make my job a hell of a lot harder, Candlekeep," said Corwin flatly. She was working furiously through a large pile of post-battle paperwork and did not look up when the Sergeant entered. Freya nodded and removed her helmet. Her golden hair fell loose, sticking to her sweaty face. "You did right by the lads today. They respect you." She paused. "I'm starting to respect you myself, albeit against my better judgement. And the Duke is a fair man, he will learn to respect you too eventually. If you can learn to respect yourself."

"I… Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir." Freya stammered, not really sure how to respond.

"What are your plans for when all this is over?" Corwin asked. She was staring determinedly at the document in front of her, but Freya noticed that her eyes had stopped scanning it. "Senior officers swear a five-year term when they take the oath. Are you going to serve it or run off into the sunset with Coran and Safana?"

"Since the penalty for desertion is death I feel compelled to ask; am I talking to Captain Corwin? Or to Schael?" Freya asked warily. She was standing to attention as best she could in a tent, given her height. Her hands were clasped firmly behind her back. She looked like an officer and despite Skie's unhelpful intervention, Corwin was impressed at how steadfastly she had behaved like one.

"I'm not asking as your senior officer, I'm asking as your… friend," said Corwin, hesitantly. "You don't need to answer right now, but you told me you want a wife and kids? Well kids need stability. You can't be a good parent and an adventurer but you'd make a fine career officer."

"I don't know if you'd noticed, Sir, but I'm a bloody good adventurer too," replied Freya, who was not sure she was ready to give it up for substantially reduced pay. Up until now she had seen no contradiction between her two futures. Yes, of course she would remain in the Fist. And yes, of course she was going to go off dungeon crawling with Coran and Safana. It had not properly sunk in until Corwin put the question to her directly, that she was going to have to make a choice.

"I'm not denying you're good at it Sergeant," sighed Corwin, "But are you happy?"

"Of course, I'm happy!" Freya replied, with a bright, charming smile and a wink. "When am I ever not happy?"

"You drink alone a lot for someone who is happy," Corwin retorted bluntly, finally looking up from her papers. Freya faltered under her Captain's piercing glare. She looked at her shoes. To the Hero, drunk and happy were close to synonymous terms. The last time she'd been truly happy sober was as a little girl before she had been bitten. Dad had agreed to let her get her ears pierced for her birthday. She'd lost one of the earrings he'd given her in a scrap with some hobgoblins, but she still wore the other one even after all these years. She didn't have the heart to take it out.

"Are _you_ happy? Sir?" Freya retorted defensively. Corwin glared at her and pointed to the exit with her pen.

"Dismissed Sergeant," she ordered firmly.

Freya sighed and raised an eyebrow, but saluted Corwin and left as instructed. A brief glance around the camp and she located Rasaad meditating near the moat. With his dragon-burned legs, getting into his usual cross-legged position had been a painful challenge but he had forced himself into it with sheer will-power.

As she crossed the camp toward him she saw Baeloth waving one of M'Khiin's severed limbs like a puppet for the entertainment of Edwin and Viconia. The werewolf winced and gave them a wide berth, deciding that she would be happier not knowing what they were saying. Imoen seemed to have made friends with one of the Bridgefort defenders, who she introduced to Freya in passing as Neera. They were bonding over their shared pink hair and moaning about the inconvenience of having multiple occupants in one's brain.

"Hey Rasaad," Freya sighed, settling down opposite the monk. "So, how pissed off with me are you. Scale of 1 to 10?"

"For what?" the monk asked innocently. "Deceiving Arowan into surrendering the fort? Assisting Imoen in attempting adultery by turning her into a chicken? Or almost feeding me to a dragon?"

"Um… all of the above?" asked Freya sheepishly. Rasaad shrugged, with a half-smile. He had come to the conclusion that his fellow Selunite was what she was and that nothing constructive would come from getting angry about it. She was a murky example of where poor self-discipline could lead. A well-timed example, for it was not only the pain in his legs that was causing him to struggle with his meditations.

Every time he closed his eyes and tried to think about moonlight reflecting off the water, or the current positions of the constellations, his mind drifted. Sometimes to things he had done with Arrow, holding her while she slept and their one, brief kiss. Other times to the more explicit things he would _like_ to do with her. Both were a distraction, and distractions were dangerous in battle. They had almost cost him his life in the dragon's lair when he had been too preoccupied with jealousy to focus properly. What if one of his comrades got hurt just because he couldn't concentrate?

"Speaking of chickens, in the monastery we had a joke," said Rasaad, attempting to lighten the mood. "Why did the chicken cross the road? To bathe in Selune's light that was illuminating the other side of the road. Heh heh…" he chuckled to himself and sighed. "Perhaps you had to be there."

"On werewolf island we had a chicken joke too," Freya said. "Why did the chicken cross the road? I don't know, but it _definitely_ crossed the road. Yup. That's why it's gone. Not because I crunched up its bones and ate it whole. These aren't chicken feathers stuck in my teeth. Nope. It crossed the road."

Rasaad opened one eye, smiled and shook his head. He found meditation easier with Freya around. Perhaps, he mused, it was because she was so refreshingly uncomplicated.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A confession, I have not kept proper track of when full moon is supposed to be. That is I know narratively where it falls into the story but have not been counting the actual days and nights. Apologies if I have contradicted myself anywhere and/or the numbers don't add up.


	31. Viconia Rescues a Baby

Baeloth finished his hilarious comedy routine, using M'Khiin's severed arm as a puppet crocodile, and Viconia wiped tears of laughter from her red eyes. They certainly didn't call him 'The Entertainer' for nothing. Nevertheless, she was fatigued from all the healing spells she had used and she detached herself from the group. Her body ached for rest but first she had to wash. The stinking river muck was still coating her from when that cursed oaf Minsc had kicked her off the bridge.

The battle for Bridgefort had been long and arduous. Many of the soldiers had the same idea as Viconia and were splashing cautiously in the shallow water. Days worth of accumulated grime and grease were wrung from uniforms, turning the river an unpleasant grubby colour. Viconia made a disgusted noise and crept upstream toward the fort where the tinkling water was cleaner. As she settled on a bathing spot, she noticed the unfriendly yet lustful eyes of rivvil soldiers upon her. Not wishing to undress in their line of sight, she took herself even further toward the semi-collapsed ruin with an impatient huff.

As she leaned down to wash, a miserable little wail came floating up from the moat. She paused with a palmful of water scooped in her hand. The noise came again. It was, unmistakably, a baby crying. Viconia wiped the water on her tunic and padded over from the river to the filthy, blighted moat. Huge chunks of rock from the fort had fallen into it, along with the bodies of attacking crusaders. Yet there, wedged on the bank, was a mewling rivvil child barely a few months old.

She picked it up whispering a hasty healing spell. The creature was soaking and shivering all over. It must have been lying there for hours. The baby, a tiny girl, continued to scream in feeble defiance at the world. Yet as Viconia hugged her to warm her up, she buried her angry little face into the cleric's chest. Without thinking, the drow smiled at her. She was soft, with thin red baby hair and nice little hands. Looking about her carefully to be sure that nobody was watching, Viconia indulged in a little cuddle.

"Where are your parents hmm?" Viconia murmured.

She did not have to look far. The soldiers who had fallen into the moat had been dragged to the bottom by their armour, but one rivvil woman was floating face down. Her unwrinkled back and ginger curls showed that she was quite young when she died. Yet it was clear from her clothes that she was no warrior. The drow looked from her waterlogged red hair to the whimpering girl's and bit her lip. She must have been hit by a stray arrow, or perhaps simply slipped and fallen from the bridge as the defenders fled the crumbling fort.

Viconia stroked the miniscule girl's red hair. She didn't have a mother, but perhaps there was a father or other relative amongst the survivors of Bridgefort. If not she supposed she would have no option but to look after the baby herself. The baby must be hungry, they'd need to send one of the males to find her some milk… She twisted one of the baby's ginger curls around her long fingers.

"You'd be very useful," she assured her. In her heart of hearts, of course, she knew that this wasn't true. Even if this child grew up to be a talented negotiator or a powerful sorceress it would require many years of care before Viconia could expect any return on her investment. But she wanted the baby, and that was all there was to it. After a while she began to sing softly in drow.

Back in the camp, Edwin and Baeloth were feeling nostalgic. The Red Wizard was boasting longingly of the great towers of Thay and of his own imposing estates. He had never known sore feet or aching muscles until he had landed on this barbaric shore. Back home, had he complained of so much as a twinge, a flock of servants would have been all over him with foot rubs and scented oils. Baeloth nodded and chimed in wistfully with memories of the Underdark.

The fabulous battles, the roar of the crowds. He, Baeloth, had taken mere mortals and transformed them into living legends! Granted, they had not remained living for very long. Yet many of them had also earned immortality of a sort in his glorious Black Pits. It had been hard, admittedly. Nobody had come to rub _his_ back after a hard day's work, only to collect his takings and demand he talk them through the accounts to make sure that not one golden coin was missed. If anything, this trip to the surface had been something of a vacation. Yet for a drow to be separated from House and Queen was worse than death when it came time to answer to Lolth.

"I can't go back to my home, at least not empty handed," Baeloth added regretfully. "The matriarchal punishment for my failure with the pits would be long and lancinating." He shuddered. "But surely _you_ need not fear mutilation on your return to Thay. Why is it so important that you polish off this one particular witch?"

Edwin made an angry noise at the mention of Dynaheir. The drow poured him a cup of tea and watched him from under his sweeping silver locks. Edwin did not trust the pit master in the slightest, but he did find him entertaining. Amongst this tiresome rabble of honourable warriors and interfering do-gooders it was refreshing to have someone to talk to who was not a complete imbecile. He took a sip of the hot brown liquid and spoke frankly.

"I ran into difficulties with some creditors," Edwin explained delicately. "A Red Wizard of my status is expected to maintain a certain lifestyle. Lacking the funds to do so would be interpreted as weakness and Thay is not a place where one would wish to be considered weak."

Baeloth nodded. This was a concept any drow could perfectly conceive. In the Underdark, to advertise weakness was to invite certain doom.

"The Autharch to whom I owed the most gold has agreed to waive my debts in return for disposing of a Rashemen. Apparently, he and one of their witches had some sort of petty feud, I did not bother to listen to the pompous windbag blathering on about the trivial details," Edwin explained. "His enemy is beyond his reach, safely ensconced in her home country. Her _daughter_ is another matter. Rashemen witches have a silly ritual they refer to as a 'dajemma.' They leave the safety of their home as part of a coming of age rite and go snooping about the kingdoms causing trouble."

"This Dynaheir is the dulocracy's daughter?" Baeloth surmised. "And you mean to discharge your debt by dispatching her? How delightfully devious."

"The Autharch took little convincing to accept my bargain," Edwin smiled modestly. "A common assassin could never get it done. The witch is quite powerful in her own right and has had the protections of her people placed upon her. Not to mention that bumbling pet gorilla she takes wherever she goes."

"Forgive me for finding fault in your felonious fixation," Baeloth ventured, "But did I not hear you mention _creditors,_ plural? How do you foresee your flagging fortunes flying without fixing the festering financial frailty?"

"I don't know!" Edwin snapped, and suddenly he seemed quite distressed. "I will have to deal with my other debts when I return to Thay. There must be something they want!"

"But if you still have to maintain your elaborate lifestyle," Baeloth went on, his eyes lighting up as though he had struck gold, "Surely your debts will only increase again? What you need," the drow was speaking so excitedly now that he was forgetting to alliterate, "Is more income."

Edwin raised an eyebrow at the drow. He looked around cautiously from left to right to make sure that they were not being overheard and shuffled closer. Baeloth leaned forward eagerly. The tips of his whitish hair dipped into his tea but he did not notice.

"You have a suggestion?" Edwin asked in a low voice over the rim of his teacup.

"I do not intend to cross Boareskyr Bridge," admitted Baeloth. "Freya's protection has been welcome but she's also a liability to me for as long as Irenicus is lurking around."

"What does Irenicus care about you?" Edwin snorted, adjusting his new robes. They were the right colour for him, but very poor quality. The lining itched. Army life did not suit the Thayan. It was uncivilised and uncomfortable. Everything he owned was filthy, there were even little flecks of mud trapped in his nose ring. Despite not wishing to appear desperate, he was interested to hear what Baeloth had to say. He wanted to go home.

"Irenicus doesn't like drow!" cried Baeloth.

"Nobody does," Edwin shrugged dismissively.

"And he blames me for Eric getting hold of those numbing potions," Baeloth went on nervously. "His vengeance against those who cross him is terrible. Now, I doubt he cares enough to bother making a special point of coming after me. But if I _happen_ to be present when he comes for Freya, he might well take me too. For a little side-entertainment. Then there's Viconia. My new mistress has attracted the Spider Queen's personal attention… and that cannot be a good thing."

"It saved her life. Some would describe that as a very good thing," Edwin pointed out, but Baeloth merely shuddered. The feelings that had coursed through him when Lolth herself had paid him and Viconia a visit were not ones he ever wished to experience again. Edwin rolled his eyes at the other mage's cowardice, though he would do no better confronted by the drow goddess. "So, what is your suggestion?"

Baeloth shuffled forward excitedly on his bottom, pushing a long lock of hair behind his pointed ear. His eyes sparkled with glee, and it struck Edwin that he was very beautiful. Or he would be. If he were a woman. _'A shame,'_ he thought, reflecting on his brief and tempestuous relationship with Viconia, _'That his compliant personality and her supple body cannot be switched."_

"Ladies and Gentlemen, brought to you by House Odesseiron and the one, the only, Baeloth the Entertainer, I give you the Black Pits of Thay!"" Baeloth grinned maniacally, spreading his arms wide.

Edwin looked sceptical.

"I had plenty of Thayan patrons who were in the know," Baeloth enthused, "Your people love fighting pits, and mine were the best in existence in their day. The profits are astronomical and we'll have no matriarchs to share them with! Patronize me and I promise you won't regret it. Together we'll settle your debts and make you rich! Then, in a few hundred years when I've earned enough to appease the matron mothers, I can go home too!"

"I would need to get into even more debt to finance an arena," mumbled Edwin. "And you need some fighters. Real ones. The audiences of Thay are not like this unsophisticated rabble. They won't be fooled by rats and squirrels."

"We'll start small but creative," Baeloth assured him earnestly. "I am a sorcerer of not-inconsiderable skill, I can capture warriors to fight. The problem with fighting slaves _here_ is that those furciferous Flaming Fist fun-flatteners would have despatched me to the afterlife. That won't pose an obstacle in Thay."

"Be careful who you kidnap," Edwin cautioned. "And you cannot attach my name to it in any way. If you do my rivals and creditors will ransack the place. We'll need someone to front it, a drow can't be the face of our venture… no I'm sorry Baeloth that won't work. Your people are no more popular in Thay than they are here. But as it happens I do know a man…"

The pair of them were to stay up long into the night, while the Flaming Fist celebrated around them, planning the layout of their new pit, and envisioning epic matches. Until Baeloth got a handle on the political complexities of his new home, they decided it would be best if he sought slaves from outside of Thay. Snatch a Thayan peasant from the streets and who knew whose illegitimate son or daughter they might turn out to be?

"Well, we are surrounded by watchable worn-out warriors," Baeloth observed. "It would be a woeful waste not to wrangle a few."

"No enlisted soldiers," Edwin said sharply. "When they fail to turn up to the next drill they others will assume they deserted, and the Flaming Fist hunt deserters to the ends of Faerun. Like a dog chasing a bone, only with much fouler breath. And on the subject of dogs, none of that inbred canine's party either… though it would be most satisfying to see Viconia in a fighting pit. Yes Odesseiron, we could pitch her against a beholder and take bets on how she dies…"

"Getting as far away as possible from the Chosen of all Faiths is half the point!" Baeloth objected. "We are absolutely not taking Viconia! Now think seriously for a moment. Who won't be missed?"

Unaware that she was on the cusp of losing her favourite slave/male, Viconia carried the baby to the huddle of defenders and civilians who had fled from Bridgefort. A few had headed home that very night, but most were too exhausted to move on without a rest. Some of the warriors were discussing signing up to the Flaming Fist, now that they no longer had a fort to defend. She lurked at a distance, eyeing them mistrustfully. Her party needed to rest but she did not want to approach a group of unfamiliar soldiers all by herself.

Besides, she reasoned, the baby needed to eat. So she made it a sort of sling under her tunic. Its little mouth began questing about for milk trying, unsuccessfully, to latch on to the cleric. With the aid of a small bribe, she was able to source a little horse milk from the Quartermaster. It was not ideal but the baby was too hungry to care. Viconia sat down with a jug and a spoon and began to feed the little creature sips while wearing a vague smile. It filled the tiny girl up but made her sick, and more healing spells were needed. Then, sated, the tiny rivvil settled down to sleep in her arms while Viconia rocked her contentedly.

Finally, as dawn approached, Viconia gathered her party and ventured forth* though Rasaad was still limping and Edwin less than thrilled by the early start. Freya, surprisingly, was perfectly willing to rise, having been in no state to reach her usual levels of bedtime inebriation the night before.

On the way they collected the Harpers since Khalid was still the _de facto_ leader of the Bridgefort Defenders. At least until someone remembered to instruct otherwise. Viconia refused to hand the baby to Jaheira while her husband asked around. Finally he returned with a fellow red-head; a pompous, angry man. He did not seem particularly pleased that his young relative had unexpectedly survived and there was a whiff of celebratory drink about him.

"Get away from her you filthy drow!"

"What is going on here?" asked Rasaad.

"That thing stole my niece!" the man howled, his cheeks burning ruddy. He pointed an accusing finger at Viconia. "She was holding her and singing to her in their foul language. Planning to sacrifice her to one of their filthy spider gods I don't doubt!"

He made a violent lunge for the baby, but Viconia instinctively snatched her away. The man tottered, unsteady on his feet.

"Are you the father?" she demanded.

"Uncle," the man corrected with a drunken leer at Viconia's chest. "Now give her back!"

"Why did you leave her to drown?" Viconia asked, her eyes flashing. She did not trust the strange rivvil and clutched the baby close to her. Part of her had been hoping that nobody would claim her, since the mother was dead. Yet if she had to leave the vulnerable little creature she wanted it to be with someone appropriate, not this raging sot.

"I saw the arrow strike my sister-in-law. They fell into the moat, I thought they'd both died," the man said defensively. "And I don't have to defend myself to a dirty little drow. Now hand her back!"

Viconia's arms tightened around the baby, but she felt a strong, gentle hand touching her shoulder. Her eyes followed the tattoos up Rasaad's arm to his understanding eyes. She felt her lips start to tremble and pressed them tight, determinedly.

"You have to give her to him," Rasaad told her softly.

Slowly and very reluctantly, Viconia loosened her grip and held the tiny girl out to her uncle. He seized the baby roughly. It woke, and let out a long, resounding howl. The uncle shot Viconia a filthy look, then disappeared with the infant into the crowd of Bridgefort survivors. The monk placed a comforting arm around Viconia, and for once she forgot to reject his kindness as a reflex.

As uncle and baby retreated, another of the defenders, a gnome, muscled through the legs of the big folk. Though his disposition was decidedly less sunny, the twinkling eyes and blue beard were unmistakable. Freya and Rasaad exchanged an apprehensive look.

"'Scuse me! I wonder if you might help me out with something. The name's Hoach Randymonk!" the gnome introduced himself gruffly, proffering a grubby hand for them to shake.

"Randy monk?" Rasaad blinked. "That… is a name with a tale to tell."

"Shar preserve me," Viconia sighed, with an eyeroll. "Are you actually blushing, son of Selune?"

"No. Not in the slightest," replied Rasaad, truthfully. Spending so much time with Freya and her constant stream of vulgarity was starting to thicken his hide. "It is simply… a curious name. That is all."

"Rasaad, I do believe you just made a joke!" Freya congratulated him delightedly, like a parent whose son had unexpectedly brought home a straight-A school report. She clapped him on the arm, knocking him into Viconia so that they both stumbled like falling dominos. "Good for you!"

"I'm looking for my nephew," Hoach cut in abruptly. "Name of Glint Gardnersonson. Me sister in Baldur's Gate sent word by carrier pigeon that your lot had drafted him. Never replied like, seeing as we ate the pigeon, but you haven't happened to see him have you?"

There was a very long pause in which Freya let out an "errr…" that lasted for a very long time. Hoach's nephew was currently serving as a macabre bird-feeder to the crows. What was left of Glint was still swinging from the branch of a distant tree. The Flaming Fist had not bothered to cut him down before moving on.

"Do not worry, I will tell him," Edwin volunteered unexpectedly. "This might be better not coming from a Sergeant of the Flaming Fist."

"Thank you Edwin," Freya replied under her breath. "I'll remember this."

She gathered her party and set off rapidly in the opposite direction, putting as much distance as possible between herself and Glint's uncle. Moments later the gnome's wail of grief and misery came ringing after her.

"Dead?!" Hoach wept. "Why? When? Glint was a sweet, harmless boy! How could this happen?"

Edwin placed an arm around the sobbing gnome sympathetically. With his head buried in his hands so that only his long blue beard poked out, Hoach could not see the cruel, cunning little smile tugging at the Red Wizard's lips.

"A most unfortunate turn of events," Edwin replied in an oily voice. "But predictable. The Rashemen are a notoriously violent people…"

While Edwin dripped his poisonous words into the gnome's ears, on the other side of camp Freya went to Corwin to warn her that there was a relative of Glint's around. To her surprise she found Imoen already there. Her new friend, Neera, was hovering nervously outside the Captain's tent. Baeloth gave her a wide, snake-like smile while he and Rasaad waited outside for their leader with Viconia and the Harpers. Neera innocently returned it.

"You just missed Duke Silvershield," Imoen trilled pleasantly.

"Oh, what a _shame_ ," replied Freya, but a dark look from her Captain shut her up.

"Duke Jannath asked him to check on her student," Corwin explained. "Although mostly he just wanted to complain about Skie."

"And you," added Imoen who was less subtle. "He heard a rumour that you two have been sharing bedrolls. Sounded pretty angry about it to me." Suddenly the pink haired girl looked from Corwin to Freya and back again, her eyes widening. Freya had known Imoen for a long time and knew instinctively when she was gearing up to say something wildly inappropriate. She was already wincing before the words were even out of Imoen's mouth. "You both like women! How come you two don't date each other?" asked Imoen. Corwin rolled her eyes, and the werewolf sighed patiently.

"Ok, just because she likes women and I like women does not automatically make us a good match," Freya said. Corwin flinched internally at this, but the older officer had no intention of letting Freya see that she'd offended her. The blasted woman's ego hardly needed to get any bigger.

"Freya is a 'woman' in body only, she has the mind of a child." Corwin looked down her nose at the werewolf. "You are nothing but an immature little troll."

"Hey, at least my last lover didn't shove a cucumber so far up my arse that it became a permanent fixture," Freya grinned dangerously, temporarily forgetting that she was supposed to be subordinate. Full moon was approaching fast now, and when the moon waxed her temper tended to wane.

"Thus proving my point..." Corwin sneered.

"No seriously, this actually happened!" Freya added earnestly, turning to Imoen, who giggled. "The clerics went in with pliers and a corkscrew but they couldn't extract it. Our Captain hasn't been able to take a proper shit in years. That's why she's such a miserable, stuck up c-"

"OK!" cut in Imoen hastily, steering Freya from the tent. "Time for your morning meditations missy!"

Freya looked back over her shoulder at Corwin and the two women glared at each other, eyes burning. Nevertheless, aided by Rasaad who had heard every word, Imoen was able to guide her away before the golden Hero said anything to make things worse. Baeloth followed them, but his eyes flickered back to Neera as he walked away.

"Missing the baby?" sneered Jaheira, noting that Viconia's arms remained crossed over her chest as though still holding an infant. The cleric dropped them sharply to her sides looking furious with herself. As usual though, she followed her long-held philosophy that attack was the best form of defence.

"I've always wondered, why do you and Khalid have no children?" she enquired unkindly. "You have been together ten years now I believe. Tell me, which of you is barren? Or did you dictate that there would be no offspring without taking your male's feelings into account? _He_ wants them I'm certain of it."

Khalid flushed scarlet. This topped his list of least-favourite topics of conversation, to the extent that he'd rather she go back to making revolting comments about Imoen. Viconia noticed his discomfort and pressed her advantage.

"I mean why else would he adopt an adult orphan?" she twisted the knife. "I'm afraid you'll find that Arrow is her mother's daughter through and through though. No maternal instincts whatsoever there I fear. Poor Khalid. No babies and I doubt you'll even get grandbabies either. Not even adopted ones."

"D- d- do I have to go and fetch Minsc?" Khalid threatened.

"Why do you have no children yourself?" Jaheira retorted haughtily. "As I understand it you have been married for decades. To four different husbands. So why no children?"

"I wouldn't mind a few puppies one day if I meet the right woman. Which I guess I won't," Freya remarked wistfully. She caught Rasaad's concerned look and shrugged with a half-smile. "Hey, it's cool. Freaks and monsters don't get happy endings."

That killed the conversation. Coran and Safana had long since learnt to ignore Freya's mood swings in the run up to full moon, but for her new party this was uncharted territory. The werewolf herself was trying to reign it in, but army life made this harder than usual. So many biteable jugulars. So many new people whose place in pack hierarchy had not been properly established… and worst of all _Skie._

Later, Rasaad found Viconia again and asked her the same question. They'd touched on this once before when she'd told him the story of how she lost Lolth's favour by sparing a baby. To his surprise he found the cleric in a forthcoming mood. Viconia told him that raising children in Menzoberranzan would have meant slaying any who disobeyed her. That, or watching them grow up to kill each other.

"It seemed like a lot of effort to go to, just to discard most of them," she said defensively. "A waste of resources better put toward advancing my own position."

But Rasaad got the impression that she did not want to see her children slaughtered at all. For any reason.

Despite Viconia's taunting, Khalid was more concerned with his actual daughter than hypothetical children.

"So, who exactly is this Coran f-fellow anyway?" Khalid scowled. "The one Viconia was going on about?"

"Arrow had a bit of a fling in Baldur's Gate apparently," Jaheira replied offhandedly. "Don't look like that! They're still friends and I don't get the impression that she was taking it particularly seriously. Besides she remembered to take the potion I gave her."

"She t- told you that?" Khalid frowned, surprised.

"No. Of course not. Arrow poked her fingers into her ears and sang loudly the moment I started asking questions. So I checked her bag," Jaheira replied smugly. "The bottle was uncorked."

"J- J- Jaheira!" he cried shocked.

"Kh- Kh- Khalid?" She responded teasingly.

She put her arms around his neck and kissed the tip of his nose. He smiled at her in a fond, if slightly reproving way, and kissed her deeply. After all this time apart, it felt good to have his family back.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I'm sorry. That was cheap but I couldn't resist it.
> 
> A recently completed commission, cover art for Shifting Targets showing Arrow, Jaheira and Khalid by Luupetitek: https://luupetitek.tumblr.com/post/186166971961/full-color-commission-for-zhenta-arowan-jaheira


	32. Edwin Fails to Murder Dynaheir: III

"Well damn, there's a fine-looking lass!" Freya whistled appreciatively.

"Did you say lass or ass?" drawled Viconia.

"Both!" she sighed.

Her grey wolfish eyes ran over long-booted legs and a curvy bottom peeking out from under a Fist-issue tunic. The armour above it would fit few wearers other than this woman, pinching in at the waist but hammered out a long way at the top like a tailored blouse. Hammered into the centre was the insignia of the Flaming Fist. Freya could have stared at that body all day long.

"And so modest too," groaned Corwin. For the werewolf was, in fact, talking about herself.

Freya's dragonscale armour had been forged, as promised, by the Bridgefort smith. The Bitch of Baldur's Gate was ecstatic with the result. She turned this way and that, delighted, as the pretty green scales shone like emeralds in the sun. Arowan, conversely, was horrified.

"Hey, Arrow check it out! Pretty neat huh? Real dragonscale!" For a moment the grin left Freya's face and a serious expression replaced it. "Irenicus is going to have a hard time puncturing through this."

"No! No, no, no. This is the bandit scalps all over again!" Arrow wailed. "Did you learn nothing from that experience you dim-witted psychopath?"

"Calm down Arrow, this is nothing like the bandit scalps. A dragon is just a big lizard when all's said and done!" cried Freya. "I don't recall you complaining when I slew that basilisk that got your party. A dragon is basically that with wings. Besides you're wearing leather! Dead cow skin; it's the same thing!"

"No it isn't!" Arrow yelled, "Cows can't talk!"

"True, they can't, but if they could you know what they'd say?" retorted Freya. "They'd say don't fucking kill me and wear my skin!"

"Did you even _try_ to negotiate with the dragon before you murdered her?" Arrow challenged, holding her soup spoon in a death-grip. Freya wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She had not bothered with cutlery but drunk hers directly out of the bowl, slurping the bottom with her tongue when she thought nobody was watching.

"Rasaad did," said Freya hesitantly. She neglected to mention that the dragon had been listening to him. Right up to the point where Viconia intentionally provoked her by stealing from her horde. Still the beast was dead now, and wasting her scales would not bring her back. "Come on Arrow. She was going to eat me or I was going to slay her. Dragons are monsters and I'm an adventurer. That's just how the world works."

"Some people think that werewolves are monsters too!" Arrow persisted, waving her spoon accusingly under Freya's nose. "How would you like to be skinned and turned into a fur coat?"

"I'd make the best fur coat in Baldur's Gate!" Freya declared proudly.

"I'd wear you," Skie smiled sweetly. She had impressed her father for once by 'honourably' volunteering to dine with the troops instead of him. Though really she was doing it to avoid any more of his lectures. Freya beamed at her, wrapping her arms about her from behind. Skie preened and pretended that the werewolf was a luxury muffler. Arrow made a disgusted noise and walked away.

Imoen was hovering at a distance, trying to avoid the Harpers. She agreed with Freya about the armour. Anything that would protect her Bhaalspawn was an excellent and necessary thing. Then again, since she would merrily slaughter half of Faerun to protect the pieces of her soul, hers was not the most objective of opinions.

Though none of the other personalities had taken her over again since Bridgefort, she was much more aware of their independent voices than usual. It could get pretty loud in her pink-topped head when the twelve disagreed on something. Like how to respond to Minsc's unsolicited moral guidance.

"Little Imoen," he said seriously. "You cannot go around stealing other people's spouses. On this, Minsc and Boo are both agreed. Now, Minsc happens to think that Jaheira is a _very_ pretty lady. Do you remember the Nashkel Carnival when she brought that swindling gamesman to justice?"

Imoen winced. She remembered the Wheel of Fortune very well indeed, only her eyes had been on Khalid. His adorable ginger hair had been flopping over his face as he'd gazed at his wife, enchanted. The sight had broken her heart.

"Minsc had never seen such a strong, powerful booty-!"

"Huh?" Imoen interjected, horrified.

"-Kicking woman!" Minsc finished his sentence with relish. Imoen sagged with relief. "And I will admit," Minsc went on dropping his voice conspiratorially, "That if she were not married to Khalid…"

Imoen gawped a little with wide eyes. She had thought Minsc far too innocent and childlike to engage in such behaviour.

"…Boo and I _might_ have considered picking her some flowers."

"Oh Minsc," sighed Imoen, giving the berserker a tight hug. "Never change."

"Alright then!" Freya barked. "Fall in lads! Let's cross this bridge before Caelar's little buggers try to blow it up again.

The original deal that Freya would give no orders to the Fist had been long forgotten. With charisma as inflated as hers, the officers had been predisposed to obey her even before she officially became their superior officer. The day she put on that uniform, her merest suggestions started to be interpreted as orders and Corwin had not bothered to fight it. Freya might have the brains of a soup spoon, but when it came to the less imaginative arts she was more than averagely competent.

The Fist had already crossed the bridge in small groups to secure the other end and prevent any Crusaders from slipping back. Formally, though, she and Silvershield would cross the bridge first. As Corwin fell into step with him and began to march, a deep sense of dread settled over her. Something was dreadfully wrong. The Flaming Fist had won a great victory here and this was the moment when they officially claimed their prize.

Yet the army was quiet. Not quiet as in the sort of lacklustre cheering that could be attributed to the heavy drinking of the night before. These officers were stone-cold silent to a man. She kept her eyes fixed ahead as Bence and the first two divisions followed him. Skie was somewhere amongst those soldiers. As the Grand Duke stepped off the bridge, the first hail was heard, but it was not for him.

"May the gods bless thee Lady Silvershield!" someone yelled from the back.

The Duke's head whipped around but there was no way to pinpoint the offending officer in such a large gathering, and his mates would never sell him out. That wasn't the Fist way. Besides, what was he going to do? Punish a soldier for publicly supporting his own daughter? He was angry though, Corwin could tell, and she hovered nervously by his side. As Skie stepped off the bridge, soldiers, dozens of them, began saluting and offering quiet tokens of respect. Corwin dared not look at Duke Silvershield.

Then Freya stepped onto the bridge followed by her two divisions and the rapturous applause that ought to have been reserved for the Duke rang out at last. The Hero of Baldur's Gate marched out, eyes front and jaw rigid. Her golden hair framed her face like a lion's mane. Despite her outburst in the tent earlier, she looked every inch the soldier and Corwin had to bite back the urge to applaud with everyone else. It would have been career suicide. Beside her the Grand Duke was shaking with rage. He looked ready to execute every last one of them.

Halfway across Boareskyr Bridge the regiment stopped. Most of the soldiers carried on cheering, assuming that the Hero was about to give some sort of speech. Corwin, however, stiffened. Something was going on that wasn't supposed to be. Freya's face had turned ashen and she seemed to be struggling to hold herself upright. Her stunning head looked up, and for a moment her eyes locked with those of the stone statue of Bhaal.

To Corwin's alarm, the Hero collapsed. Then to her absolute horror, dark fire erupted all around Freya's fallen body, burning the symbol of Bhaal into the brickwork of the bridge. Some of the soldiers were pointing upward. Above them the eyes of the statues, Bhaal's and Cyric's, were glowing with divine flame.

" _What's happening?"_ Freya thought. _"Where am I?"_

_The statue of Bhaal. It was so familiar. As if she had seen that face thousands of times before. Sometimes gazing back from the water when she washed in the river, or reflected from the blade of her sword. It was her face. Her real face. Except that now the statue was gone, along with the great stone pillars. There were no decorations or carvings anymore. Only the bridge, and she had to cross._

_She… He… was leaning heavily on the arm of a slender green-eyed woman with black, curly hair. He was much larger than she was, and she had been supporting him for a long time. Even when he slipped free of her she remained bent over, her back damaged from the effort. Still, her burden was almost gone. He turned to her and she stroked the frail skin of his dying cheek, eyes full of worry and love._

" _Madele, stay here." Freya commanded her._

" _No!" she screamed, and fell to her knees, clutching the hem of his cloak. "You don't have to face him here, you can run. We'll hide you!"_

" _The lake becomes the droplets," he said sternly, "And the droplets become the lake."_

" _But my Lord!" she wailed. He took a lock of his devoted mortal servant's hair and thumbed it thoughtfully. Madele's brief life had already been filled with suffering, and he sensed that there was worse to come. Yet her time here was so short. Utterly insignificant compared to the millennia she would spend by his side._

" _You can do nothing more for me. It is time," the dying god replied resolutely. He left Madele weeping and limped onto the bridge, his ravaged arm swinging limply at his side. He was so weak now that his breath was taken by this simple crossing. All his life, his powers, his will to survive, were in the children now. They were the scattered droplets, he the parched lake. He would have to give Cyric this last tiny piece of himself now, while he waited for the others to return._

_Mad laughter rang out across the bridge. Bhaal turned to face his doom and for the briefest of moments his bloodshot eyes betrayed a flicker of fear. The sword plunged, agony ripped through him, the death-throes of a depleted god. They burned the memory into this landmark forevermore._

"What dost thou believe is happening?" Dynaheir asked Arrow. Everyone hushed to hear her answer. They were all staring at Freya tossing and turning on the bridge, while beneath her body the black mark of Bhaal grew clearer and clearer.

"She's having a dream vision," said Arrow apprehensively. "Something Bhaal-related I expect."

"I have dreams too!" a cheery voice trilled in her ear. Arrow automatically looked down, expecting such an overly high and bright voice to belong to a gnome. Instead she found herself looking at a perky young half-elf. Standing beside Imoen with their matching pink hair made it look as though the pair of them were starting some sort of cult. Neera went on, "Not interesting dreams about Bhaal though. Hey! Imoen says you have prophetic dreams, maybe you can help me figure out what they mean!"

"My dreams aren't really prophetic," said Arrow distractedly. "They're either things that are happening to the other Candlekeep Bhaalspawn while I'm asleep, or a mad wizard trying to mess with my head…"

"I have this one dream where my teeth are being shaved by a razor," Neera went on, undeterred. Arrow flinched. "And another one where they all turn into jelly. Then there's the one where they fall out one at a time and I have to crunch them up with my other teeth. That one's the worst. I mean, what am I supposed to do when I get to the last tooth?"

"Nope," said Arrow, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Can't deal with this right now. You need to go away."

Neera obeyed, looking crestfallen.

"Don't mind her," whispered Imoen. "She's charismatically impaired."

"It's not just her, nobody here likes me," Neera sighed. "I was drinking with this bard, Voghiln, last night and we were supposed to meet for breakfast. He _seemed_ to really like me. Maybe a bit too much actually… but this morning? Vanished off the face of Faerun!"

"Maybe he left after the battle," shrugged Imoen. "He didn't seem to be doing much here."

"He was composing," said Neera. "About Freya, Caelar, Dragonspear and all the rest of it. Those two are pretty inspiring stuff if you're a bard! I doubt he'd leave right before the main event."

But nobody else cared, and Voghiln wasn't missed. Freya's vision was brief, lasting only a few minutes before Freya got to her feet shakily and surveyed her father's mark at her feet. She looked back across the bridge at her horrified followers, then ahead to where Corwin was waiting with Skie's father. Only the Duke seemed pleased by this turn of events. A malicious smile was playing at his lips.

"I saw Cyric slaying Bhaal," she said loudly. She could not think of a good lie to get herself out of this one, and any rumour that started was likely to be worse than the truth. Better to just tell them. "He killed him on this bridge, and I saw it.

She took a deep breath and finished the crossing, the silent eyes of the Flaming Fist watching her every step. There was nothing else she could do. Then they followed, there was nothing else they could do either. Then all of them turned to look at Arowan.

That was why nobody noticed Neera's sudden absence. She was sure that Voghiln had not crossed the bridge, and was just wandering back to camp to check that he was not paralysed from alcohol poisoning when a wonderful feeling settled over her. She felt light and happy and when a voice from the woods called to her, she practically skipped away into the trees. There, playing his lyre in a glade, was broad-bearded Voghiln and with him the delightful silver-haired gentleman she had seen outside Corwin's tent.

"Salutations my first Thayan Thralls," he smiled ingratiatingly. "I've come to invite you to quell your voracious thirst for vile violence and claim victory in my latest venture! Aren't you just jumping to join me on a jolly jaunt across the sea?"

Somewhere in Neera's mind a dim alarm bell was ringing at the mention of 'Thay.' Yet the pleasant dull happiness coursing through her drove it from her thoughts. Of course she would accompany this charming man. He held out his elbows and she linked her arm with his left, Voghiln with his right.

"Vill there be vine in these new pits?" Voghiln asked, hopefully.

" _What?!_ Listen you unlettered swine, you cannot just take random words and put 'v' in front of them to make them alliterative!" Baeloth cried in outrage. "That's not great oratory it's… it's… cheating!"

His outburst seemed to temporarily cut through the spell he had placed on them. Voghiln blinked at him a few times, then shook his bearded head as though trying to dislodge something. Baeloth remembered himself, and went back to being affable.

"Wine, women and the most wonderous weapons you can wield," Baeloth promised generously, adding in an undertone; "provided you _win._ "

Neera and Voghiln were not missed and even Baeloth's loss was not mourned much. Viconia was sorry when she noticed him gone, despite his attempt to sacrifice her to Lolth, and Edwin lamented the loss of his company. The rest of Freya's group, however, had not wanted to bring Baeloth in the first place. She had accepted the male drow purely as a favour to Viconia and made no effort to try to locate him.

Meanwhile progress was being hampered by Arrow, who was reluctant to walk over the spot where Freya collapsed for fear of triggering a Bhaal vision. When she got up Freya had found to her delight, (and Arowan's alarm,) that she had increased somewhat in strength and acquired new powers. Dynaheir and Dorn agreed that it was a sign of her connection to Bhaal growing stronger. Arrow wanted no part of it.

"But Arrow w-we need to cross the Bridge," Khalid said anxiously.

"I don't want to," Arrow replied apprehensively.

"Do not be insipid, ranger," Dorn growled in frustration. "You must cross the bridge and if doing so brings you closer to your Bhaal essence, all to the good."

Arrow's party followed the Flaming Fist to the point on the bridge where Freya had fallen. She was dragging her feet. The wreathed skull that was the mark of Bhaal grinned up at her. It was scorched into the ground like a tattoo. As she hesitated, Dorn reached out a great orcish hand to drag her across.

"No!" Arrow snapped stubbornly, dodging his grip.

Ignoring Khalid's and Rasaad's yells of protest, Arrow tore away from her group and dived from the bridge into the river below. The flow was rapid, and though she was a strong swimmer she felt herself tugged under multiple times as she struggled to shore. The water stung her eyes, blinding her and by the time she wrestled to the other side she was choking, gasping and had been dragged some way downstream. She crawled into the grass on her hands and knees coughing.

"A- Arrow!"

"Idiot child, you are drenched!"

"You almost drowned," a stiff Calishite voice spoke close to her ear. This was an exaggeration but Arrow's lungs were stinging too much to answer. "The magical belt I gave you would have kept you safe. I think you should ask for it back."

Arrow grimaced. Rasaad's unhappiness at her having given away his gift was not lost on her, but this did not seem like an appropriate time to bring it up. She and Rasaad had been getting on better of late. She couldn't bring herself to be frosty with him after the dragon had almost roasted him alive. The belt, however, had belonged to a time when they had been becoming more than just friends. Since then he had hurt her often and badly. She was not completely sold on the idea of trying again.

"I don't know Rasaad. 'The belt' has a habit of abandoning me when I most need it," Arrow panted, glaring up at Rasaad from under her sopping wet hair. "I think maybe 'the belt' is fine exactly where it is. Protecting somebody else."

Rasaad flushed but they were distracted by the sudden appearance of Irenicus. The colour drained from Arrow's skin as he stood on the bridge facing Freya, but the hero seemed oddly unperturbed. Granted, she had drawn her swords, and behind her Corwin and Bence were rallying the Flaming Fist to fight him if the need arose. Yet Freya no longer exactly seemed frightened of him. It could just be an act, a show of bravado. Yet somehow Arrow didn't think it was. Not this time.

"You feel it don't you?" Irenicus asked. "Something has changed. Your tenuous connection to the essence within you has been rewoven and reinforced, if not necessarily refined."

"You regurgitate a repetitive repertoire of r-words," sneered Freya. "You could almost pass for Baeloth."

Anger flashed in Irenicus' cold eyes. He may have lost the essence and powers of his people, but he had not shed their prejudices. Comparing him to a drow annoyed him greatly, but he refrained from taking the bait. Freya, meanwhile, was sizing him up. Her grey eyes flickered to the hand where the fingernail had come from, noting with interest that it had not grown back. Instead he had replaced it with a metal plate. More bolts and patches of enchanted leather had been added since last time. Now that Freya knew about the fingernails she no longer saw this as threatening, but rather a symptom of weakness.

"It is an impressive achievement," he went on. "Even if you yet lack the control necessary to bring your abilities to their full flower. You are certainly the one I seek. Even Eric could not compare."

"You think you can take me? Try it," Freya growled, in a very dog-like way.

"When we faced each other last you could barely scratch me," Irenicus sneered, "And that was with an army at your back."

"In case you've lost your eyes as well as your fingernails, my army is still here," snarled Freya. "And I'm stronger than I was the last time we met. I am getting stronger, and you are getting sicker. With the Fist's aid I'll take you down this time."

"You look to the Fist for your salvation? Silvershield is a hapless fool, and you are an even greater one if you rely on him," Irenicus replied frostily.

"Not as great a fool as you will be if you don't back the fuck off," Freya snarled.

"I am not really here, this is a magical projection," Irenicus replied in a bored voice. "If you do not believe me feel free to hurl one of your pathetic projectiles in my direction. Or perhaps try to slice me with your swords again. You will find it as ineffective as in your dreams."

"I'll take your word for it," Freya replied dryly, sheathing her blades.

"A dead god's blood lingers long," Irenicus mused. "There are remnants of your father's power here even now. I am not surprised that something awoke within you."

Something was waking within her, but it wasn't Bhaal. The wolf was growing stronger and it knew the two of them had left their fight unfinished. It wanted to know who was dominant. Inside her, it was snapping its jaws, itching for a rematch. Freya thought of Selune and tried to battle it down. She knew that Irenicus was a powerful threat but to the monster within her, he was nothing more than talking meat.

"He lives on through you and your brethren. You sense his whispers even now, quiet and insidious. They will grow ever stronger. His demands will become screams that drown out all else," Irenicus went on.

"Fuck me, you're worse than Sarevok," Freya groaned. "What is it with you people and being so damned enamoured with the sound of your own voices? Read my lips: I don't give a rat's arse what you have to say. Fight me or bugger off!"

Freya was rooting for the latter, but she said nothing. She needed time to think after this last vision, for slow on the uptake though she was, the werewolf had finally cottoned on as to what Sarevok and Madele had meant when they talked about lakes becoming droplets and droplets becoming lakes.

When gods sired children they put some of their essence into their offspring. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It was why, on the whole, they tended not to have very many. Each one drained some of their own divine power. Bhaal had done something utterly unprecedented. When he foresaw his own death he poured not just _some_ of his essence into his children but _all_ of it. They were the droplets and their purpose was to outlast the Time of Troubles, then die and return to the lake of their father.

"For now you serve your father's will just by surviving," Irenicus droned on, oblivious to the fact that Freya was barely listening.

" _No I don't,"_ thought Freya. _"The Time of Troubles is over. I'm delaying his revival by staying alive!"_

"Spread your wings, feel their power. If you do well further tests will come. If you do well perhaps, eventually, you will learn what you need to soar."

" _You're full of crap. If I wanted to be a god all I'd need to do is die, go to the abyss and wait."_

"We will talk again soon, child of Bhaal." Irenicus promised.

" _I AM BHAAL!"_

Suddenly Irenicus broke his mystical-sage routine. The muscles on his overstretched face twitched with irritation and he blinked rapidly. Then he reached up and brushed his cheek as though something was splashing on it.

"You alright?" asked Freya sarcastically.

Irenicus cursed. The projection of himself flickered and fizzled out, leaving empty air where he had been standing. Freya looked around and was relieved to see that more people were looking at the space Irenicus had occupied than at the mark she had left on the bridge. It had been a timely and convenient distraction. She straightened her uniform, saluted the Grand Duke, and the army marched on.

Irenicus woke up in a shallow natural cave some distance to the West. Something was dripping onto his face. He had felt it while he was projecting himself and the damp, sticky sensation had dragged his mind back to his body. Odd, he had chosen this cave because it was sheltered and unoccupied except for himself and…

His eyes shot open abruptly. Bodhi was leaning over him, dribbling blood and spit from her fangs. He sat bolt upright and seized his 'sister' forcefully by her throat. The vampire's expression changed from smug to petrified and she whimpered in distress.

"Why do you always make me do this?" he hissed. He released her neck and she stumbled backward, massaging her larynx and glaring at him resentfully. "How go the preparations for full moon?"

"There isn't much to prepare, most of our people are in Athkatla already," Bodhi muttered. "The few we have here are ready. Do you want me to try again with the Red Wizard? He hasn't had much luck killing the Rashemen witch, perhaps he's ready to change his mind."

"No," replied Irenicus after a moment's consideration. "He might tip Freya off."

"I have a couple of spare fledglings and Yoshimo," Bodhi listed. "That should be enough. They're only there to distract her friends anyway. We can deal with Freya ourselves."

"Your task is to distract the underlings too. I will deal with Freya alone," Irenicus said with a warning note in his voice. "Do not interfere, you will not enjoy the consequences. Do I make myself clear?" he asked. Bodhi nodded, her face murderous. Irenicus added in a vexed tone, "I know Glint served his primary purpose but this would be far simpler if he were still around to slip a sleeping potion into her party's rations."

"Good thing you found someone to spy for you after everyone else said no," Bodhi taunted him. "Or you might have had to resort to making deals with drow again."

"For the final time Bodhi, there was no other way to reach Eric," said Irenicus through gritted teeth. "Bargaining with Baeloth was an unpalatable necessity."

"We might be rejected and exiled by our own kind," Bodhi spat, "But I never thought I'd live to see the day when you would sink so low as to speak to a drow."

"You will not live to see anything at all if you cannot hold your tongue!" Irenicus thundered, and suddenly Bodhi found herself locked rigid by a spell.

She knew what was coming next and braced herself as summoned magical fists pounded her undead body from all directions. It was less frightening than when she had been alive. Back then she had feared that the next time she made him lose his temper would be the last. Now the worst-case scenario was that she'd turn to a gaseous form and have to regenerate for a while. Yet it also carried the disadvantage that he had no reason to hold anything back. Soon blood was flowing from her ears and nose and angry lumps began to swell over her.

"I hate you," she whimpered quietly. It didn't matter that it was true. Her 'brother' was long past caring. "I'd be safe and comfortable in Ellesime's court if it weren't for you."

"Do not bring _her_ into this!" Irenicus snapped.

"You could never keep your temper with her either," Bodhi taunted him recklessly. He might retaliate by hurting her more but she'd never possessed the power to touch him physically. Words were the only weapon she had. "But you never owned her as you wanted to, for all your posturing. That's why she left you in the end. You always say it was this other warrior or that visiting bard. It was everybody's fault but yours…"

"Enough," sighed Irenicus, who had grown tired of beating Bodhi. His surges of temper were the last real feeling left to him. Yet their intensity burned ever weaker and their duration ever shorter. Freya was correct, he had his magic but his body grew frailer by the day. He was running out of time. "Soon we will have Freya and then we can right the wrongs done to us. Starting with that bitch Ellesime. She'll wish I'd sent her to hell years ago by the time I'm through with her."

"You can do nothing with her while a piece of Freya's soul is still mixed up with that freak Imoen," sneered Bodhi. "What do you intend to do about that?" Irenicus did not reply. "You don't know, do you?"

"It is not straightforward," he replied tersely. "Imoen has no soul of her own. Her very essence is a patchwork of the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn. The venom with which she strikes at those who harm them! The drow, Edwin, myself. A threat to far more than merely her life. Imoen even grows to dislike the monk for his pathetic romantic failures with Arowan."

"So what will you _do?_ " Bodhi pressed.

"Prise the pieces loose by any means necessary," replied Irenicus simply. "They are like globs of clay, squashed together but not properly blended. When I broke into her mind I perceived the individual pieces, mostly fragments of dead Bhaalspawn. There are fault lines. They can be separated."

"How?" Bodhi asked eagerly. Irenicus looked off into the distance, his face emotionless.

"Pain. Physical and mental. Surround her with death and agony. I will take a leaf from Gamaz's book and experiment," replied the Hooded Man. "Perhaps force her to do things repulsive to the souls we wish to separate. We shall see."

Arrow's party sat around a campfire that evening. The march from Bridgefort had been long. Though they had finally crossed the river there was still a lot of ground to cover before they reached Dragonspear. The atmosphere was less tense now that the threat of not making it in time was averted. Better still they were in wild country now rather than ravaged farmland and that meant better hunting. Arrow and Jaheira had vanished for a few hours into the trees, walking in parallel to the army and delighted everyone by returning with a whole deer.

As the meat roasted over fires and the delicious smell wafted over the tents of the hungry soldiers, Arrow briefly found herself so popular that she knew how it must feel to be Freya. Now Khalid was tending to the cooking while Minsc polished his blade and Dynaheir made adjustments to her spell book. Dorn, however, did not seem happy, which was odd since he had a bigger appetite than any of them. He kept rolling his shoulders and grimacing.

"It is good to be out of that accursed cage," sighed Dorn. "I have a knot in my back that I will feel for weeks."

"I could work that out for thee, if thou liketh?" Dynaheir offered. The half-orc raised an eyebrow. The witch was both lacking in physical power and, in his view, soft-minded for not seeking to rectify that. On the other hand he was not exaggerating how uncomfortable it was. He nodded and she set to work kneading the knot of muscle with her fingers.

The mage's hands were stronger than they looked and the stiffness began to loosen under her. Out of the corner of his vision, Dorn caught the berserker watching them with narrowed eyes. That was a bonus. The Rashemen man's hamster was on his lap and he was stroking it slowly. The Blackguard would not have thought it possible for a grown man to pet a hamster in a menacing way, yet Minsc was succeeding. Dorn smiled at him unpleasantly.

"We will begin your training tonight, Little Lamb," Dorn told Arrow. "I was preoccupied with taking my revenge on the Crusaders but now that their camp is flattened, I have time for you."

"What were you thinking strolling into the Crusader camp and attacking all those people?" Arrow asked him conversationally. She did not much like his nickname for her, but she was keen for him to teach her to melee fight more effectively so she let it go.

"I attacked a single person," retorted Dorn. "Unluckily I was made to attack him while he was surrounded by everyone else in camp."

"Intentionally? Or did your master not realise?" asked Arrow idly.

"I was tasked with eliminating the priest as he performed a ritual for the Servant of all Faiths," growled Dorn. "My patron knew of this from his prayers, but my target Reverend made a mistake. Caelar is not the Chosen One."

"What has your master got against the Servant of all Faiths?" asked Arrow, knowing that it was Viconia. Telling Dorn this, she suspected, would amount to murder. Yet she was shamefully rather hoping that he might find out by accident. Perhaps Dynaheir might accidentally-on-purpose let it slip, since Viconia had tried to murder her too. If the witch or someone else told him, Ilmater could hardly hold that against her.

"That is a very complex matter," Dorn replied darkly. "Suffice it to say that Ur-Gothoz expects the Servant of all Faiths to cause him considerable… inconvenience."

"You mean she will slay thine master?" Dynaheir enquired, though she continued to rub his shoulders. Dorn let out a deep, rumbling laugh.

"Slay? No!" he replied. "If the prophets had foretold that she were a direct threat to my master this area would be overrun by Blackguards, not just me!"

"Then what- ARRRGGH!" screamed Dynaheir as a dagger pierced her flank.

"THIS IS FOR MY NEPHEW! DIE WITCH!" Hoach Randymonk screamed, knocking Dynaheir prone and leaping bodily onto her chest. Too winded to cast a spell, her eyes widened in shock and fear. With a roar of fury Minsc leapt to his feet, sword drawn, but he was not needed. Dynaheir felt the weight of the gnome lift from her.

Dorn had grasped Hoach by his blue hair and raised him one-handed. The gnome squealed and kicked, screaming curses at the Rashemen in general and her in particular.

"Thine nephew was executed by the Flaming Fist for espionage!" cried Dynaheir angrily, rising to her feet. She grasped her thigh to stem the blood flow. Hoach looked shocked but seemed to calm a little. His stumpy hands flew to his hair. Being held up by it was unbearably painful without blind rage to power him through. Dynaheir's dark eyes narrowed and she asked shrewdly, "I had naught to do with Glint's death, who told thee I did?"

"Ed-" Hoach gasped, but he never finished the word. Minsc had reached them and in a berserk rage he swung his huge sword. Hoach's body landed with a dull thud on the ground, while his head remained in Dorn's grasp. Blood cascaded in a great tidal wave over Arrow who yelped and Dynaheir who looked resolutely furious.

"Minsc!" she cried in exasperation. "That man's testimony would have been cast-iron proof that Edwin is still trying to murder me. I almost had the slippery little eel! Instead he lives to try again another day. Ugh!" Dorn was impressed. She was not fazed by the gore, only by having been denied the opportunity to destroy her real enemy. That was his kind of person. The blood made her robes cling to her body and Dorn's eyes roved over her lustfully.

"You surprise me, witch," he remarked. Dynaheir uncorked a healing potion, stemming the stab wound in her leg.

"I owe thee mine thanks," she smiled, raising an eyebrow. "Another moment and he might have stabbed me somewhere more serious. That is a most sizable knot in thine shoulder is it not? Perhaps we should return to mine tent to work on relieving the tension."

"Indeed," grinned Dorn, getting up eagerly. Arrow caught a whiff of him as he passed. He was huge and she had always had a thing for long hair, but she found his stench almost as off-putting as his love of violence. Each to their own, she supposed.

Arrow glanced over to see how Minsc was taking this sudden turn of events, but he was still in a fit of berserker rage. Judging by the way he was hacking at Hoach's corpse, there would be little recognizable left of the man who tried to murder his witch by the time he regained his senses. From a distance she saw a red-robed figure watching them from atop one of the catapults. She pointed to Hoach's body and made shooing motions. If Minsc were to spot Edwin in his current state, the Thayan would be lucky to avoid being loaded into the catapult himself.

"When Minsc snaps out of it, inform him that he will be guarding thine tent tonight," Dynaheir instructed coolly over her shoulder, as she led Dorn away by the hand.

"Fine… Fine… just leave me to deal with this mess!" Arrow muttered. She rolled up her sleeves and turned her eyes heavenward. "I guess we're starting my training tomorrow."


	33. Little Lamb

There was over a week of long marching needed to reach Dragonspear from the bridge, but the weather was oppressive. The sky gods seemed unable to decide what they wanted to wear. Though the sun raged down through gaps, the sky was packed with great, soggy rainclouds which refused to burst. The result was damp, sticky and humid weather, without a dry face in sight. Every so often a recruit would keel over in exhaustion and have to be lifted into one of the carts to recover.

Skie was finding that the Bridgefort Battle had earned her the grudging respect of Freya's evilly-inclined party. This did not wholly reassure her as to the rightness of her actions. She extracted herself from a lively debate between Edwin and Viconia about the effectiveness of psychological versus physical torture, in search of more palatable conversation. If she'd imagined that spending time with Imoen would cheer her up, however, she was depressingly mistaken.

"Then Draxle had her arms and legs torn off by gnolls and Eric… well you were in Baldur's Gate at the time, you know how Eric went," Imoen sighed, "And that's how the ten of them died. Only Freya and Arowan left now."

"Do all the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn turn into dust when they die?" asked Skie.

"I think every Bhaalspawn does, not just Gorion's," replied Imoen. "Remember Sarevok? Nothing left of him but a big old pile of glitter."

"Oh yeah. Doesn't that scare you?" Skie frowned. "If you die there won't be a body. You can't be revived like Edwin and Baeloth were."

"It's different for me," Imoen explained. "I have a fully-mortal body and they don't. It belonged to the daughter of Gorion and one of Bhaal's priestesses. My soul was made after she'd been buried a short while and put into it. If I died, I don't expect it would dust."

She looked bleakly into the distance. With the stress over Khalid and the distraction of meeting Neera, she had forgotten to wash in the river while she had the chance. As a result she was looking worse for wear. Her pink hair hung lank around her greasy face. Her nails were bronze with grime and she had large dark patches beneath her arms. Though she had that in common with most of the soldiers. This was not the weather for full armour and at this rate the army of Baldur's Gate would overpower the Crusaders with their stench long before anyone drew any weapons. Skie tried to cheer Imoen up.

"At least if Draxle turned to dust the gnolls couldn't eat her after they ripped her limbs off," was the best she could come up with. "So, y'know. There's that."

"Actually they probably did," replied Imoen despondently. "The only bits that dust are the parts connected at the actual moment of death. Freya's blood doesn't dust when she gets injured, Arrow's nails don't explode in her mouth when she bites them and Thorg's legs are still lying in Durlag's tower apparently. Arrow might have bloody well buried them," she added with a scowl. "So yes, Draxle's arms and legs would have been eaten." She went quiet for a moment. "I wish I could see them again. Just one last time."

"You will eventually!" trilled Skie, her voice rising artificially as she cast around for anything to lift the mood. "I like to comfort myself that I'll see my brother again in the afterlife."

"You're right!" Imoen cried suddenly, her eyes widening. "I can go to them whenever I like!"

"What?" Skie shrieked in alarm. "No Imoen, you cannot be serious!"

"Why not?" Imoen babbled hopefully. "My body isn't Bhaalspawn but my soul is! If I die it will join them in the abyss. Then the clerics can bring me back and-"

"No they won't!" Skie snapped repressively, determined to stamp on this dangerous notion. "We don't have the resources to resurrect everyone who falls in battle. You think that the Flaming Fist will waste one of those spells on somebody who dies _on purpose?"_

"Yeah, I guess. It was a stupid idea," sighed Imoen. She went back to gazing off into the distance sadly, and Skie detached herself looking for a brighter atmosphere. Perhaps Edwin and Viconia were not such dreadful company after all.

Unfortunately she found only stony gloom in the Hero's party. Corwin was livid with Freya on a number of counts, including burning her father's symbol into the bridge and the effect that little stunt was having on morale. Mostly, though, she was seething silently over Freya's earlier words. The atmosphere hung between them like a low-lying storm cloud and when the party stopped to make camp she took her aside into the woods.

"You cannot call your superior officer things like that, Sergeant!" Corwin tried to keep her voice level and professional. "Full moon or not."

"Sorry Sir, are you going to discipline me?" Freya sneered.

The Captain hurled her bow to the ground in temper and marched up to the other woman, eyes blazing. Strands of hair were escaping and plastering across her face. She had a long, ragged scar stretching across her right cheek. Freya wondered how she'd acquired it.

"Every time I think," Schael said, her voice shaking with rage, "That there might be an actual person underneath your infantile façade, you find a way to be even more of an arsehole!"

"Yeah but a damned good-looking arsehole as arseholes go," grinned Freya knowingly. "Tell me I'm wrong."

She wasn't wrong. Freya was tall, handsome and infuriating as that cocky smile was, Schael felt as though she were drowning in it. Nothing that the Grand Duke, nor anybody else could throw at the Bitch of Baldur's Gate, seemed to shake her unwavering arrogance. Undignified though her love of women and wine might be (she could smell the latter on her breath) the crazy hero was unquestionably a demigod. And there was a definite glint in her grey, wolfish eyes as she looked at Corwin.

"Forget it Mad Dog," snapped Corwin. "Even if by some miracle I escaped the venereal diseases there's still the risk of rabies. The Flaming Fist don't pay me enough to buy cures for all the nasty things I'd catch from you."

"Did you just call me a dog? Bite my arse!" Freya snarled. 

They both moved at the same time and almost chinned each other as a result. Schael didn't care. She had to stand almost on tiptoe to reach the taller woman, whose strong solid arms wrapped about her as they kissed. Her lips burned where they brushed hers, though she was no less angry than before, Freya could tell. It was a bruising mix of hatred and reluctant desire. Schael wound her fingers through the golden hair, almost tearing it out. Yet before the werewolf had time to decide how to respond, she found herself being shoved bodily away.

"That never happened!" Corwin ordered breathlessly. If anything, she looked even more furious now than she had been before.

"Yes Sir," replied Freya. Her expression was unreadable, but she gave the Captain an ironic salute.

"Get out of here!" hissed Corwin, seizing a fallen branch and throwing it at Freya. To her bemused surprised the werewolf picked it up and returned it to her. She cocked her pretty head to one side with a dopily hopeful expression. If Schael didn't know better, she'd think the great golden prat wanted her to throw it again. Instead she snapped it in half and dropped the pieces.

"Sorry, erm… instinct," mumbled Freya. Corwin's eyes narrowed, unsure whether Freya was talking about the kiss or attempting to play fetch. Her behaviour around full moon was really weird. "I'm going now."

"You do that," answered Corwin, folding her arms.

Back in the camp, with so many healers dead, Arrow's party were on healing duty, much to Dorn's dismay. She, Khalid and Jaheira travelled with the carts, moping the brows of heatstroke suffering soldiers and tending the wounds of those injured in battle.

"If you wished me to give them a quick, clean end I would understand," Dorn howled in bewilderment. "But this is beneath us! You show pity to the weak and grant fairness and kindness even to your enemies. You are no true child of Bhaal!"

"Thank you!" Arrow beamed.

Dorn muttered something darkly under his breath but, following his patron's orders he picked up a damp rag and slammed it forcefully into the forehead of a sweating officer. In some ways, he was to prove the most effective nursemaid that the Flaming Fist had ever had. There was to be no malingering, or faking illness to hitch a ride on the carts during this march. No soldier would submit themselves to the 'care' of Dorn Il-Khan unless they really didn't have a choice.

Dynaheir smiled at him seductively. He acknowledged her with a nod. Their night together had provided a welcome change of pace, though they were so oppositely aligned that it was hard to envisage a long-term future in it. Yet for Dorn, bloodlust always outweighed regular lust and he wasn't happy. Moreover Arrow was a useless student. She lacked the killer instinct required to make a good fighter and though her technique was slowly improving under his guidance he was having no luck in coaxing out her Bhaal essence. If the murderous family instinct was present in Arowan, then it was buried deep.

Rasaad was burying instincts too, of a different kind. Watching Arrow patiently tend to her patients, a gnawing longing grew in his heart. Despite her harsh words about the belt he felt sure that she still cared for him too, but the doubt was eating away at him. He had little time to spend with her though. As full moon approached Freya needed more and more of his attention. Extra meditations were in order, or sometimes just conversation with someone calm and rational who would brush off her occasional outbursts. The more time they spent together the more personal their banter became, until in the end the Selunites found themselves on the subject of Coran and Safana.

"I do not need to 'get laid,' quite the opposite," Rasaad said in a sanguine way, after she had snapped at him for suggesting that cheating with Coran was not morally ideal. "Self-restraint is a muscle to be exercised. Apply it in one area and it will become stronger in all the others."

"Seriously? 'Muscles to be exercised?' Come on Rasaad, there's such a thing as making it too easy," Freya replied with a strained smile. "Look, I don't fundamentally disagree with your point. Banging Coran in that femininity girdle wasn't my finest hour, but I was surprised that Safana was as upset as she was. She knew who she was dating, she had met the man. Coran is like a cat. He goes where he likes, does what he likes and comes home when he wants petting. If Saffy wanted loyalty she should have got herself a dog!"

"I think you knew perfectly well that she would be angry." Rasaad observed astutely.

"Yeah well…" Freya conceded. "I was pretty angry myself. It was just after I'd fallen for that fucking doppelganger impersonating Skie. It was so humiliating that after it kissed and stabbed me, I pretended to pass out so that I wouldn't have to deal with it."

" _Pretended_ to pass out?" Rasaad raised an eyebrow.

"It takes quite a lot to knock me out," Freya muttered. "Being hacked with half-a-dozen swords and blown up will do it. One knife wound? Nah. Anyway, while she thought I was out-cold Safana said a lot of shit, made a lot of jokes that I…" she trailed off. "Let's just say I wasn't feeling particularly loyal to her when the opportunity to screw Corana presented itself. And I was also very drunk, even by my standards."

Rasaad looked at her in a collected, but decidedly accusing way.

"Yeah, I know I still shouldn't have done it!" she snapped. "But she's as bad as he is. You think Safana was going without sex all that time Coran was stuck as a woman? The only difference is that he got caught!"

"How do you know that?" Rasaad blinked. Freya gestured to her nose. The monk shrugged and nodded. This had brought them onto another subject that he had been intending to raise for some time but hadn't gotten around to it. "About the drinking…"

"You're in dangerous territory now monk," Freya snarled darkly. "Watch your step."

Rasaad wiped the sweat from his face and back with a towel, taking the opportunity to consider his next words. The humidity was horrendous. It reminded him of the rainy season back in Calimport when the air had been almost too thick to breathe. He and his brother had been driven by the heat from their hidey holes and forced to sleep out in the open. Those had been perilous times, though at their age they'd had no notion of just how perilous. Only looking back as an adult did he realise quite how much danger they had been in. If he could prevent even one more child being orphaned it was worth risking the werewolf's wrath.

"You are a senior officer now. You have responsibilities. Have you considered the example that you are setting to the soldiers?" Rasaad pressed, ignoring her warning. Having travelled with Viconia's barbs and insults for as long as he had, he had grown quite adept at telling the difference between posturing and a real threat. "When you get blind drunk the night before a battle they copy you."

"Why would they?" she asked, bemused.

"To be like you," he explained. "Or to impress you. Or both."

"Could be," agreed Freya.

"Then they go into battle hungover and have a higher chance of being slaughtered the next day," Rasaad pointed out. Freya shrugged indifferently and for a moment the monk forgot to be calm. He cried, "Doesn't that bother you?"

"Why should it? It's their life and their choice," she replied.

"What about their parents? Their spouses and children? Do you not feel guilt?" pressed Rasaad.

"Not really no," she retorted defiantly. "Ok, so they're more likely to _die_ if they're hungover, but they're also less likely to _kill_. The Crusaders have families too!" She looked back toward camp and grinned. Dorn had just tackled Arrow, flipping her easily onto her back. The ranger got up and waved her sword at him hesitantly. In seconds the half-orc seized her wrist and twisted her around into a headlock.

Rasaad closed his eyes and pretended to meditate, but really he kept watching the pair of them spar. Dorn was getting close to her in a way he would have liked to himself. And why not? It was just practise fighting. He had sparred with every single able-bodied person at the monastery, there was nothing sexual about it.

"Excuse me," he cut into their training session when he and Freya were done. "Might I borrow Arowan for a moment?"

"Oh gods, please do," Arrow groaned, as Dorn grunted his disapproval. "Everything hurts!"

"I will eat, then we will resume," the Blackguard threatened sternly before stomping away. Rasaad watched him go, then turned his tattooed face to Arrow.

"My nose has been to the underside of Dorn's armpit," she lamented. "I now have some notion of what Faerun will come to if Caelar succeeds in opening her portal, for I have smelled hell."

Rasaad's lip twitched and he looked at her with deep, affectionate eyes. Her hair was just long enough now that she could scoop the back half into a tufty ponytail and she had put it up for training. Physical exertion in this crushing heat had turned her near scarlet. As he watched she uncorked her waterskin and unceremoniously dumped the lot over her head.

"Plans progress," he smiled. "I see the shape of our final battle with the crusade. We can prevail."

"Probably," agreed Arrow vaguely, dripping on the ground. She was watching Dorn walk away, a frown line appearing between her eyes.

"What troubles you my friend?" the monk asked.

"We defeat Caelar. Then what?" Arrow asked in a hollow voice. "We march away from a mountain of dead bodies. The refugees' homes and farms are still ashes. I doubt very much that the Dukes will put their hands in their pockets to help them. We can't… There's no… Where is the victory here?"

Rasaad felt a surge of worry. He did not like it when Arowan spoke like this. It sounded far too much like the sort of thing Glint's lot would say and so far two of them had been slaughtered during this trip. He would like to imagine that Freya wouldn't hang her innocent sister, but in all honesty he could not rule it out. He certainly would not put it past Captain Corwin and Duke Silvershield. If they ever heard Arrow talking like this, she would be in serious trouble.

"I'm sorry," she sighed, reading his expression. "I grow weary thinking about war and poverty. Distract me with more pleasant talk. Tell me about moonlight reflecting off a pond or something."

"Actually I did come to distract you, though not with conversation," Rasaad smiled warmly. "In the monastery, I would spar daily to keep my martial training at its peak. As we have some time to ourselves, I thought you might like to spar… with me?"

"You want to fight me?" Arrow asked, nonplussed.

"You were doing well against Dorn," Rasaad remarked.

Arrow narrowed her eyes suspiciously at this obvious lie. Nevertheless she agreed to give it a go. Rasaad had known from the outset that she would be no match for him, but their difference in strength was so pronounced that he was finding it difficult even to avoid hurting her. He was surprised that Dorn had managed it, though perhaps threat of retribution from his demonic patron was incentive enough to take care. Ur-Gothoz's interest in Arrow made him uneasy, but perhaps the demon simply saw in her a more accessible Bhaalspawn than Freya. He was sure that whatever the hell lord wanted, Arrow would disappoint him.

"Ok, forget the sparring," chuckled Rasaad, as Arrow gave up struggling against his grip and flopped, exhausted into his arms. He wanted to stay forever like this. Did she still care for him or had Dorn or Coran or some other man taken his place in her heart? Perhaps it would be easier if they had. Then he could resign himself to it and be happy knowing that she was happy. "Forgive me for my audacity but I have to ask. Is there anyone in your life who holds a place in your heart?"

Still wrapped in his huge arms, Arrow could not bring herself to make eye contact. She could feel his breath against her forehead and her heart began to hammer uncontrollably. She'd have preferred more thinking time but faced with such a direct question her options were either confess or reject him permanently. It would not be long before she found herself wishing that she had chosen the latter.

"No-one but you Rasaad," she admitted, very shyly.

"That is what I was afraid of," he said heavily. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he realized that she had taken it entirely the wrong way. Arrow turned instantly from bright red to completely colourless and stuttered a hurried apology. "No, what I meant was-"

"I have to go," she cut him off. Then she called loudly to Dorn that she was ready to resume her training. The half-orc swallowed the remainder of his stew in one messy gulp and lumbered over. Rasaad had no desire to continue their conversation in front of him. He had no choice but to join the others around the campfire.

No sooner had Dorn placed a sword in Arrow's hand, (he did not bother with practise swords since she stood no chance of injuring him either way,) she lunged, parrying his blows and raining down her own with all her strength. All of her strength was nowhere near enough, but it was certainly an improvement on her tentative pokes.

"You are angry!" Dorn noted with pleasure. "Excellent. Harness that! Channel it and strike me."

It was a gratifying step forward. He was still blocking all her blows but for the first time he was having to expend a small amount of effort to do so.

"We progress, Little Lamb."

"Enough of the fucking nicknames!" Arrow yelled. She kicked Dorn hard in a spot that suggested she had heeded his advice against fighting fair. He grimaced with pain and surprise, and by the time he had recovered sufficiently to retaliate, a fire arrow was notched and burning in his face.

"Little Lamb," he repeated with a provocative grin, and blew the arrow out. He seized her bow so fast that the ranger didn't see his hand move. The spent arrow hurtled harmlessly into the treeline and he yanked the weapon from her hands, snapping it in two.

"You broke my bow!" screamed Arrow. She would not have thought herself capable of getting any angrier, but she was. Unwisely, she flung herself at Dorn. Calmly he sidestepped her and shoved her in the back with his palm. She landed face down in the mud but spun around like a rattlesnake, dripping and livid.

Viconia giggled from a distance, and the Harpers looked ready to intervene, but Rasaad got there first. He placed himself between Arrow and Dorn and squared up to the Blackguard. The half-orc looked decidedly unintimidated but before they could do anything, the ranger was on her feet, sword drawn.

"Back off monk!" she snapped at Rasaad. "Or perhaps you'd rather he let me win?"

This was a low blow, an unkind reference to Rasaad's brother. At the monastery he had always let Gamaz win when they sparred. Both he and his brother felt that this had made the older monk weak and blamed it in part for his turning to Shar.

"Arrow we need to talk," he begged.

"I need to get a new bow," Arrow retorted, though she had no gold and nothing to trade. Perhaps the Quartermaster would swap one for the sword in her hand. Technically it belonged to Dorn but since he had broken her bow it seemed like fair game. She threw a handful of mud at Dorn, which he dodged with a chuckle, and turned her back on both men.

"Listen to me," the monk pleaded as she strode away.

"Just forget I ever said it, please," she begged, desperate for this conversation to end.

"No Arrow, listen to me!" he said, catching her arm.

Arrow fought back the impulse to run. Rasaad was so much better than she was. How ridiculous he and everyone else must find her for imagining that he might like her too. ' _No-one but you Rasaad.'_ What a stupid thing to say and what a stupid way to feel. All she wanted was to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

"I meant that your presence disrupts me. I find it hard to concentrate as you are always in my thoughts," he said urgently, but Arrow was searching frantically for a way out and only half-listening. "If you did not care for me then I could accept it and control my feelings for you. I wish more than anything that we could go back to being friends like we were in Nashkel. Everything was so simple then! This way the temptation to act on my feelings is always there. Can you not see why I must keep my distance from you?"

"I don't understand what you..." Arrow trailed off. She was not following him exactly, but strip away the fluff and the meaning was clear. He wanted to avoid her. Which was handy because, heartbroken and humiliated, she very much wanted to avoid him as well.

"Fine, if I make you so uncomfortable, I'll keep my distance too!" she said coldly, yanking her arm free of his grip.

"Fine!" he snapped.

That night she fell into a fatigued, fitful sleep that was plagued by evil dreams even before Irenicus paid their minds a visit. This time his venue of choice was Gamaz's workshop. As Arrow looked about her and realised where she was, she forgot that it was only a dream and started to scream hysterically.

They were in a natural cave high atop the Cloud Peaks. The place was long abandoned. Snow had blown in from outside and piled in great shimmering drifts in the entrance. There was a terrible stench. Decaying bodies of dead monks and the mutilated remains of Gamaz's experiments were strewn everywhere. Arrow was back in the same cage where the Dark Moon monks had knocked out her tooth and shaved her head. Freya was in the one which had previously held Khalid, holding her sleeve over her sensitive canine nose.

"Why here?" Freya called over the sound of Arrow screeching. She frowned at her sister, annoyed.

"I seek one with the potential I need to move forward. I found two candidates. Do I choose the child of light or the child of darkness? Which of you is worthy?" Irenicus asked.

"Child of darkness?" scoffed Freya. "That's a grotesque exaggeration. I'm the child of dusk at worst. The 'child of darkness' is dead! Arrow get a grip!" she broke off. Her sister ignored her, shaking the cage bars and screaming at the top of her lungs. Freya shook her head and turned back to Irenicus. "Eric wasn't half as powerful as I am and you couldn't hang on to him. What in the name of Selune's shining arse makes you think you can take on me?"

"You could not harm me before with an army at your back!" he reprimanded her.

"I'm stronger now, I've beaten dragons," the werewolf grinned. "And you're getting weaker. Aren't you?"

This seemed to hit a nerve. He reached out toward her with the same expression he had worn right before attacking Bodhi. He was a god in the making, this pawn was his by right and she had no business talking back to him! His hand clenched as though he were itching to wrap it around her throat, but he could no more touch Freya in these visions than she could harm him.

"Go on then," snarled Freya. "Try it. Arrow, will you _please_ _shut the fuck up?_ "

"Perhaps a change of venue?" Irenicus suggested. The doors to the cages swung open. Arrow ceased screaming and bolted without a thought. She battled her way through the sparkling snow drift and out onto the open ledge where Rasaad had been forced to kill his own brother. Months of falling whiteness had erased all traces of the battle and the air was fresh and glittering.

Gazing over the edge at the frozen mountain range stood Imoen, and with her a group of adventurers. Viconia, Baeloth and Dorn she recognized. Beside them stood a bard wearing an oily smirk, whom Arrow did not know.

"This one tried to murder you," Imoen remarked, in a distant voice stroking Viconia's back. "Baeloth condemned legions to die in his fighting pits, you don't want to know what Eldoth has done and as for Dorn, the innocents this one has slain are beyond the count of tears."

"Wouldn't the world be better if you just got rid of them?" Irenicus' voice rang in Arrow's head. "You claim to try to help the innocent, but you withhold the gift that would help them most. The destruction of these evil ones who plague them."

"Murder is no gift," replied Arrow resolutely.

"You really are the useless runt of the litter, aren't you?" Irenicus sneered, emerging at the cave entrance. "Your sister understands. Your brothers understood."

Freya stepped out of the cave behind him but she wasn't alone. Eric and Sarevok were with her. The three of them strode past Arrow, blades drawn. Sarevok chose Dorn as the strongest and worthiest foe, though the Blackguard put up no resistance. He plunged his sword into Dorn's chest and watched him fall with glowing eyes. His fun was spoiled somewhat by Freya taunting him that she still had his real sword. Then with a slash of her twin bastards, she opened Eldoth's chest.

"The hells are you doing?" Arowan screamed in protest.

"Why not," shrugged Freya. "None of it is real, and you've no idea how badly I was aching to gut the smarmy creep. Skie would never have forgiven me though."

"And I always wanted to kill Baeloth," remarked Eric, who was taking his time carving up the unresponsive drow. "Shame none of this is real."

Fresh snow continued to cascade from the heavens, covering the three bodies in a thin mottled layer. Their blood ran into it, staining it scarlet. Eric smiled faintly and twisted his dagger into Baeloth's innards.

"I have nothing against the orc. I was just bored," confessed Sarevok. Eric nodded in agreement.

"A quick murder to break the monotony of the Abyss is better than nothing," the dead necromancer pointed out to Arrow. "And besides, none of it is real."

"There is one left for you," replied Irenicus, gesturing to Viconia. "Why not enjoy it? As your siblings so rightly point out, it isn't real."

But before Arrow could respond, her dead brothers stepped between her and Viconia. They did not look like they ought to be related. Eric was thin and pale as he had been in life, his long ebony hair falling over narrow shoulders. He wore the same robes he had died in, gifted from his fans in the Black Pits. She wondered if he had slaughtered the one who gave it to him when he burned Baeloth's business to the ground. Sarevok, by contrast, was tall and muscular with a shaven head, tanned skin and those strange glowing eyes.

"No. Not this one," Eric declared, fixing the drow with his own eyes which were also peculiar. Grey flecked with green. He'd once owned a ring with gemstones of the same colour, but he had gifted it to his lover, Bubbles, before freeing her from the pits. Arrow remembered the look of demented hatred that she had shot him just before she was teleported away. It was a strange reaction to someone, even an evil someone, who had just released her from hellish slavery. She wondered briefly where the courtesan was now, and whether she still wore his ring.

"We need Viconia," insisted Sarevok forcefully. "You need her. Everybody does!"

The Hooded Man was becoming visibly annoyed. Once again his vision was not going according to plan. There seemed to be two sorts of people in the dreams he triggered; inanimate illusions under Irenicus's control and actual Bhaalspawn visiting from the abyss. Arrow was sure that these two were the real Eric and Sarevok, complaining about the tedium of their afterlife.

"You two are past needing anything," sneered Freya. She had spent much of the last year pursuing their deaths. "Even the Servant of all Faiths can do nothing for you now!"

"You need her too," Eric pressed. "She will save us from destruction and spare all Faerun from a great evil. Viconia must survive or none of us will."

"Viconia will save us from something even more evil than you? Ha!" barked Freya. "I find that hard to believe."

"Unless she plans to distract the evil by having sex with it," scoffed Arrow, who had recovered from her initial shock at finding herself in Gamaz's lair. "Otherwise I don't believe it either!"

The snow began to swirl around them, heavier and faster until they could no longer see or hear through the blizzard. The cold and the wail of the swirling wind overwhelmed their senses, but gradually they grew warmer. Unpleasantly so. They were returning to the humidity of the waking world. As they woke, sweat pouring from each of them, Sarevok's final words shuddered like a gong in the sisters' skulls.

"BELIEVE IT."

Her party noticed a stark and disconcerting change in Arrow over the following days. Instead of helping Mizhena with the sick soldiers she exercised and sparred with Dorn every minute they were not marching, from sunrise till after dark.

Though she was nowhere close to being able to take down Dorn himself, she started joining the Fist soldiers in their evening bouts. At first she lost every time until gradually she started to best a few of the weaker ones. Then the regular ones, until she found herself winning more fights than she was losing.

Viconia watched her progress with blood-red eyes.


	34. Minsc vs. Rasaad

"I think you are a strange warrior Rasaad," Minsc observed one evening over their thin soup. For once both adventuring parties were eating together, except for Arrow and Dorn who were sparring as usual and Corwin who was eating with the Duke. This was mainly to form a barrier between Freya and the rank and file soldiers. Her behaviour as full moon approached was growing increasingly erratic.

"Strange? How so?" asked Rasaad mildly.

"Why do you wear no armour and carry no shield?" Minsc wanted to know.

"Armor is too restrictive," explained the monk, lowering his bowl from his lips. "It is better never to feel a blow than to expend energy warding one off."

Jaheira's lip twitched. It was only very recently that Rasaad's martial philosophy had started to pay off. In the early days of their adventures so many blows had hit home, despite his dodging, that he had used more healing potions than the rest of the party combined.

"Why not do both?" enthused Minsc. "Wrap yourself in steel and then do your fancy dodging dance for double the protection! Even Minsc couldn't hurt you then!"

"I do not think-" began Rasaad.

"No, no you are right. My mighty blows hit EVERYTHING! Even dancing monks in plate mail. What was I thinking? Ha!"

Minsc took an enormous slurp, then burped richly with a satisfied smile. The Rashemen was easily pleased. Everyone else's stomachs were groaning. Since Arrow was spending all her time training with Dorn instead of hunting, their supply of game meat had dried up. Except for Freya's. The moon had not yet risen, but every so often the wolf would bound off alone into the wood. Later she'd slink back to camp with some dead creature in her furry jaws, but she wasn't sharing. Nobody wanted her to in any case. She was curled up by the fire now, crunching a wood pigeon and snarling malevolently at any soldier who strayed too near.

"I think we should test that," Viconia smirked, her eyes lighting up wickedly. "What say you Jaheira? Your addled warrior versus our moonchild?"

The druid ignored her and took another swig of ale. Her braids had come loose and she was retying them so aggressively that it was incredible they stayed on her head. Right now she had the nicest hair of anybody in the camp. This was because it was a self-cleaning enchanted wig. She had lost her real hair a decade before to a magical fire. It had taken Khalid a while to get used to her newest blonde crown, but it suited her.

"I do not think we should be wasting our energy sparring each other right now," said Rasaad. He shot a pointed glare at Arrow and Dorn but they were much too far away to hear him.

"Actually," Imoen piped up tentatively, "I'd be curious to see that too."

"Taking bets now!" Edwin volunteered. "Three to one odds against the monk! Yes, Odesseiron, that oaf's skull is so thick he could fight to his dying breath and every gold piece helps."

"You are betting against me?" Rasaad looked aghast.

"I'll put fifty on you," said Viconia, loyally.

"Excellent," snickered Edwin, rubbing his palms together. "Any other takers?"

Imoen sidled over to Edwin and whispered conspiratorially.

"Ten gold pieces says Minsc kicks his bottom!" she giggled.

"Very sensible!" grinned Minsc, circling his shoulders and dancing from foot to foot. "Minsc and Boo are experts when it comes to the kicking of bottoms!"

For the first time in weeks Rasaad actually smiled.

"Minsc _and_ Boo?" he queried. "Two against one is unfair, surely?"

Minsc looked genuinely troubled. He lifted the hamster's furry face to his own and they held a hasty conference in whispers and squeaks.

"Minsc and Boo are no cheaters," the warrior declared. "One on one it is!"

Rasaad looked around at his companions' eager faces. The dark clouds in his head parted briefly and he felt only fondness. What harm could it do to indulge them?

"Agreed," he laughed.

The two groups of adventurers excitedly spread out to clear a space. This brought some of them into dangerously close proximity to Freya. A growl started to rise in her throat, but Skie sat down beside her, stroking her golden head and the werewolf settled down grumpily. The Quartermaster looked irritated by the commotion but with so many powerful patrons he decided to say nothing. Rasaad took position and readied himself, arms raised. Each party was cheering their champion enthusiastically.

Minsc strode confidently into the space opposite Rasaad. The monk readied himself. Minsc had not put aside armour or sword. Voluntarily fighting without one was a concept that he struggled to wrap his head around. Sure, he could punch if necessary, but swords were much more fun!

But then, to everyone's astonishment, Minsc plopped Boo onto the grass in front of Rasaad. Then he retreated to the edge of the circle to join the other spectators.

Rasaad blinked at his rodent opponent. Boo's beetle-like eyes blinked back.

"Boo will not agree to me fighting without him," shrugged Minsc.

In the stunned pause that followed, Arrow and Dorn meandered back from their training to see what was happening.

"What's going on?" the ranger frowned. "Are you… wait… wha…?"

Rasaad, still in his fighting pose, was squared up to the tiny hamster in the middle of a circle of onlookers. It was the most adorable thing Arrow had ever seen. Her heart melted for Rasaad. The feelings she had been trying to suppress so hard came flooding back. It hurt.

"What's going on?" she asked in a constricted voice.

"Er…" said Rasaad, turning red. He was so cute. She couldn't not love him.

' _That's what he was "afraid of." He doesn't love me back,'_ she thought. _'He just wants to avoid me.'_

"Minsc and your monk are going to fight," laughed Skie.

' _Not my monk. Not mine.'_

Her head swam and her heart began to pound with anger once more. Deep down she knew it was irrational, he was not obliged to return her feelings and yet… and yet he said he wanted them to be friends like they had been in Nashkel. Well then, why not leave well enough alone? He'd already had that! It was him, not her, who had pressed to change the nature of their friendship. Until he changed his mind. Again.

Was that how friends normally treated each other? Arrow didn't know, she didn't have all that many. Still, she was starting to believe that not only did he reject her love, but he didn't care much for her friendship either. Now here he was making an idiot of himself with Minsc and his rat for Viconia's entertainment.

"Have you nothing better to do?" she spat. "We're in the middle of a war but instead of training or saving your strength for the enemy, you want to play childish games with this idiot!"

"That is the first sensible thing I have heard you say since we met," grunted Dorn in agreement. "Let us leave these frail minded child-men and return to our training."

"Arrow?" Rasaad said in a small, stricken voice.

"And another thing, I want you to stop using that stupid pet name!" she spat. "My name is Arowan!"

"Arrow- Arowan perhaps we should have a private word?" he mumbled, his eyes darting awkwardly around the watching parties. Khalid and Jaheira were debating in whispers whether or not they should intervene. Edwin was tucking his gold surreptitiously into his robes hoping that Imoen and Viconia might forget about their wagers. Viconia was smirking at them, Skie and Imoen glaring daggers at him while Dynaheir still had her nose buried in her spell book where it had been from the very start. Freya was also not paying attention. She was growling softly as Skie petted behind her ears, but it almost sounded like a purr.

"I've had enough words from you. I've not forgotten your words before this crusade!" Arrow replied harshly. "You told me that you were a poor judge of character for trusting me. You told me that I could burn in hell. You blamed me for your brother's death then, and you still do! Viconia was right about one thing, you'll never let it go."

"I… My brother…" stammered Rasaad. It was not like Arrow to be this direct. The woman was one of nature's emotional bottlers, but she had changed from the girl he first met in Nashkel. The kindness had stayed but the softness had gone. Battle, betrayal from many sources and the harsh realities of caring for the refugees had rid her of naivete. Life had done as much to him before they had met. In the face of her rage, the monk found he still had plenty left of his own and it resurfaced. "You lied to me about the numbing potions. Perhaps I could not have revived Gamaz, but it was you who deprived me of the chance to try!"

"Gamaz was scum!" screamed Arrow. This managed to shock even Viconia. The Ilmatari cursing was rare and losing her temper was rarer. Verbally abusing a man's dead relative, however, was a whole new state of rage.

"The last time I saw her this angry," Viconia whispered to Edwin excitedly, "She tried to break into her adopted father's tomb. This should be entertaining!"

"Never speak of my brother like that again!" Rasaad thundered, starting forward like an angry bull.

"Or you'll do what?" Arrow bellowed, squaring up to him. Rasaad clenched and unclenched his hand, shaking with fury.

"I swear, if you were a man…!" he shouted.

"Oh, don't let that stop you," she sneered. "It didn't stop Gamaz!"

Dorn looked positively delighted. Then his eyes shifted to the sword in his hand. As Arrow stormed away, leaving Rasaad trembling with anger, Dorn chased her. As soon as they reached the trees he caught her by the arm and pressed Rancor into her unexpecting palm. Through the blade Ur-Gothoz spoke to her once more.

_Temper, temper… Now this is more familiar, Bhaal._

"I'm not Bhaal! Why are you calling me that?" Arrow yelled at the sword.

_Didn't you say you were sick of nicknames? You know you always did have anger management issues. I remember the last time we met you gave me scars that took decades to heal… but bygones be bygones… and to show I bear no ill will, just say the word and I'll have Dorn slaughter the monk!_

"Freya will kill him if you do that!" cried Arrow aloud. Dorn's eyebrows shot into his hair. Clearly he had not been privy to this offer.

_There are always more Blackguards. The future isn't set in stone… it can always be changed by the will of a god…_

"What future?" asked Arrow, frightened now. She had not forgotten the first disturbing vision that the demon lord had sent her through this blade. Sure enough, Ur-Gothoz sent the same image she had seen when she first handled Rancor.

~

_In the middle of a burning drow city, a sobbing man dropped to his knees. Surface elves rushed around him, weapons drawn and torching everything in sight. Then into the vision stepped Dorn, holding Rancor and painted red with blood. He was leading a group of prisoners, being driven by two more surface elves with hard expressions._

_The captives were drow women, their men and small children. They did not look like warriors. Some of them were even carrying babies in their arms. The human man, who bore the symbol of Helm, sobbed harder at the sight of them and shook his head._

" _No, no please…"_

" _You know the drill Anomen," Dorn growled. "Do it or they all die."_

_Battling through his tears, and looking as though he would rather be anywhere else, the young man rose to his feet and cast Detect Evil. All of the adult drow but one glowed with a tell-tale red. So did one of the two surface elves herding them and, of course, Dorn. The defiant faces of the mothers turned to petrified as one by one Dorn drove his sword through those of evil alignment. Children screamed and babies fell to the ground and rolled away unheeded, their parents cut down from under them._

_Dorn released the last grownup, the only one not glowing. He was a common man by the look of him. Realizing that he wasn't going to be killed, he gathered the crying youngsters, shepherding them away as fast as he could while carrying three infants at once._

" _Him too?" Dorn asked. Arrow could not see who he was speaking to, perhaps his demon master? The drow man froze, turned slowly and looked back around. His face was gaunt but he stiffened his jaw, ready to face death with dignity. The half-orc bared his sword, and the man shut his eyes, but it was the evil surface elf's head that toppled to the floor._

_The human cleric, Anomen, collapsed again but Dorn seized him by the scruff of the neck. There was a portion of the city in the distance as yet untouched by flames. Ignoring the drow as he tried to steer the newly orphaned children to safety, the half-orc headed toward it._

_~_

"NO!" Arrow screamed, dropping Rancor and backing away. "But it can be changed?" She looked at Dorn, who shrugged. "Ur-Gothoz said it can be changed! I can stop this? How?"

"I would not tell you even if I knew," replied Dorn with a grin, for he guessed what she had seen. Ur-Gothoz had shown him the cull too, and the Blackguard could hardly wait. He would send tens of thousands of souls to his master's domain. Perhaps hundreds of thousands. He would know glory like no Blackguard in the history of the hells had ever known before. His name would be whispered in terror for millennia.

Arrow could think of one way to prevent this vision from coming true, but she had no bow and it was unlikely that she could slay the half-orc in any case. Dorn read her expression and shook his head.

"It would not work Little Lamb," he assured her. "My master would send some other to take my place."

Back in the camp any trace of Rasaad's smile was gone. He was clenching and unclenching his fist, breathing heavily.

"Well. That ruined that," pouted Viconia.

"Ruined what?" growled Rasaad.

"You still want to fight Boo?" asked Minsc incredulously.

"I want to fight _you_ , cretin, with or without your rat!" the monk replied. Imoen and Skie exchanged a frightened look. Minsc looked suddenly doubtful. Rasaad slammed his fist and bellowed, "FIGHT ME COWARD!"

"COWARD?" roared Minsc, crossing the circle in two huge strides. He swept up the hamster in his palm as he went. Boo scuttled onto his shoulder, chittering angrily.

Minsc had barely straightened up when Rasaad's fist made contact with his eye. The Rashemen staggered backward as the second blow slammed into his jaw.

With a roar Minsc leapt to his feet, his eyes clouding with berserker rage. Rasaad landed one more blow to his armoured chest before Minsc's shield pounded against the side of his face.

Khalid leapt forward to break it up, with the unfortunate result that both Rasaad's left hook and the flat of Minsc's sword slammed into his head simultaneously. He slumped to the floor, knocked out cold.

"Khalid?" cried Jaheira. Then she bellowed in a voice of matriarchal fury; "Enough! This has gotten out of hand! Dynaheir, control your bodyguard!"

But there was little the witch could do to calm Minsc in this state. Freya was growling properly now and starting to rise to her paws, but Skie pressed her hand down firmly on the werewolf's haunches.

"Sit!" she commanded, in a voice that brooked no refusal. She scratched Freya's ears when she complied, and the werewolf placed her furry face in her lap, blinking balefully.

Minsc and Rasaad continued to rain blows on each other, each lost in his own rage. Boo scuttered down the length of Minsc's arm and bit the monk's finger. Instinctively Rasaad grabbed the hamster. It squeaked desperately, head poking out of his fist, eyes bulging. Minsc froze. Dynaheir cried out in panic and leapt forward fearing (correctly) that the berserker might actually kill Rasaad if he crushed Boo. Fortunately, the monk regained his senses just in time.

"Oh gods," he gasped, dropping to his knees and setting the little rodent on the floor. It scampered over Khalid's prone body, up Minsc's leg and onto his shoulder. From the safety of his protector, Boo chittered at Rasaad like a fuzzy orange parrot. He shut his eyes, the two party's screams ringing in his ears, waiting for Minsc's final blow to fall. It never did.

"Move! Idiot!" growled an angry canine voice. Boo's brush with death had been sufficient to snap Freya out of dog-mode. The great golden warrior had resumed her human form and was holding Minsc under the arms. The Rashemen was thrashing like a fish out of water and it was taking all her effort to contain him. "Rasaad! Be… somewhere… else…" she panted.

"Help me move Khalid!" commanded Jaheira.

Rasaad slung the unconscious fighter over his shoulders and carried him to the healing tent. Dynaheir was trying to soothe the berserker while Freya gritted her teeth with effort to hold him back. Khalid moaned in his sleep. The blows to his head were blooming into vivid red-blue marks. Mizhena turned pale at the sight of him, and scurried to get no fewer than three priests plus Jaheira, who started healing him before they'd even taken payment. They disappeared with him into the back of the tent and for the next hour Rasaad heard nothing else.


	35. Full Moon

At length Jaheira came to join Rasaad. He was sat in the corner of the Healer's tent with his head in his hands, and for such a large man he seemed very small. The druid looked tired and strained. Khalid had been more hurt by the double blow from Minsc and Rasaad than they had initially realised and it had taken the combined efforts of multiple healers to avert serious harm. Mizhena emerged after her wearing a disapproving scowl.

"Your friend is awake and will see you now," she said. "I don't expect there will be any permanent brain damage."

They padded tentatively into the back of the tent and pulled back a makeshift curtain. It was pale blue. Perhaps it was supposed to be a calming colour, but to Rasaad it looked anaemic and sinister. Khalid was lying on a bedroll, arms folded. His face did not look any less battered. An angry black and purple bruise covered half his face, clashing hideously with his orange hair. One of his eyes had swollen shut, but he was awake and glaring.

"I am sorry my friend," said Rasaad, unable to look the warrior in his one functioning eye. "What I did was unforgivable."

"It certainly wasn't your finest hour," Jaheira rebuked him sternly.

The monk hung his head in shame.

"Dad?" cried Arrow, bursting into the tent, Dorn following her like a highly pungent shadow.

"I'm alright," Khalid reassured her, but the ranger was looking at his head with an expression of horror.

"What is he doing here?" she gasped, pointing at Rasaad. "Viconia told me what happened! We had an argument, so you hit my Dad?!"

"That is _not_ what happened!" Rasaad cried, lifting his head from his hands and leaping to his feet. The accusation was so utterly outrageous that for a moment he forgot to be sorry, and it looked as though the pair of them would resume their fighting right there in the Healer's tent.

Yet almost immediately Arrow deflated and shook her head. She had turned a deathly pale under her freckles, and seemed far more agitated than the situation seemed to warrant. Khalid, after all, was no longer seriously hurt.

"Never mind Rasaad," she said, shaking her head distractedly. "That's not important now."

"Arrow? What is it?" Jaheira asked sharply.

"I saw…" Arrow began in a shaky voice. Then she turned back to look at Dorn who was grinning at her from the tent entrance. What in Faerun was she supposed to do with him now? The half-orc was quite right, of course. If his demon master had plenty of other Blackguards to choose from, killing him would do no good. As for sending him away, how was she supposed to stop him if she didn't know where he was or what he was doing? She shot the half-orc a pained look. "Dorn, get out!"

The Blackguard bowed politely and ducked out of the tent. Perhaps he would go and find Dynaheir. Dorn had a gut feeling that she was holding something back from him. Their sleepy conversation on the pillow… after… had gone on for some time. The subject of his capture by the crusade had come up, and his mission to destroy the Servant of all Faiths. Once or twice Dynaheir had seemed to be on the verge of telling him something but decided against it. He had to know what she knew.

"And then he made the human cast Detect Evil and killed everyone who glowed. Even one of the surface elves who was on his side!" Arrow explained, distressed. "He just ignored the children. Ur-Gothoz said it could be prevented but he didn't say how. I don't know what I'm supposed to do!"

"Are you sure he did not show you this just to frighten you, child?" asked Jaheira, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm sure. It felt so real," the ranger fretted.

She looked around her anxiously, her short brown hair flicking around her face. Mizhena and the other clerics had returned to caring for their other charges, though none were suffering from anything more serious than heatstroke. It ought to be more oppressive inside the tents than outside, but there seemed to be some enchantment on the Healer's tent to keep it cool. The clamminess of Arrow's hands and the tiny beads of sweat prickling her forehead had nothing to do with the temperature.

"This human Dorn was allied with, was he another B- blackguard?" Khalid frowned, pushing back his ginger hair.

"I don't think so," Arrow replied after a thinking pause. "Anomen wore the symbol of Helm and he was crying _a lot._ They weren't acting like allies, more like he was a sort of slave. Then Dorn asked someone else if he should kill the surface elf but I didn't see them."

"That must be Ur-Gothoz himself," muttered Jaheira, troubled. "It sounds as though in the future you saw he will find a way to leave the hells and invade our plane of existence. This is not good."

"No shit!" wailed Arrow. "But how do I stop it?"

"Maybe you can't."

Rasaad, who had been keeping very quiet up until this point suddenly spoke. His voice was low and his eyes still on his hands. They glittered in the flickering light of the tent torches. Arrow looked at him with a confused expression. The Harpers' faces were both angry at this seemingly unhelpful contribution. He carried on, speaking to his fingertips.

"Dorn first came here with the intent of slaying the Servant of all Faiths," Rasaad reminded them. "Perhaps she is the one who must prevent what you saw from coming to pass."

Jaheira's party let out a collective groan. Now that he mentioned it, it was obvious. Viconia, the Chosen One, had to save the world from Ur-Gothoz and his horrible schemes. This must be her destiny. It was a pity. Arrow would much prefer Viconia's destiny to be eaten by a giant spider. Yet although she immediately resigned herself to this, something was bothering Arrow.

"Then what does Ur-Gothoz want with me?" she frowned.

"Caelar n-needs Bhaalspawn b- b- blood to open a portal to Avernus," Khalid suggested. "P-perhaps Ur-Gothoz has a similar plan in m- mind?"

"But why warn me?" Arrow's frown deepened.

"Demons are known to enjoy tormenting their victims," Jaheira pointed out fairly. From what little Arrow knew of demon lore this was certainly true and yet…

"The Servant of all Faiths?" she muttered to herself. "I guess this explains why Llolth would save Viconia. The Spider Queen stands to lose an entire city full of worshippers if this vision comes true, but what about the rest of them? Most of the gods detest drow!"

All the gods wanted this future stopped. Even Sarevok and Eric had pressed upon her that Viconia had to survive. Two of the most selfish, evil individuals who had ever lived and who were dead anyway. Why should they care? There had to be more to this than the sacking of a city, but she had no means to answer these questions for now. As monk and ranger left the tent so that Khalid could get some rest, Rasaad returned to the subject of their fight.

"Now that you have seen for yourself what happens when I lose control, do you understand?" he asked her earnestly. "I refuse to let it happen again!"

Arrow sighed. She had never felt so utterly helpless and defeated. Dorn had shown her a monstrous future that she had no power to avert. In all likelihood the only person who did was fucking _Viconia._ Yet it seemed all Rasaad could worry about was suppressing his cock. She was tempted to suggest he just lop the damn thing off and have done. Unfortunately she was not wholly confident that he wouldn't interpret that suggestion literally, so she held her tongue.

Instead she nodded at him, shrugged and returned to her own tent. Unlike the Healer's tent it had no cooling spell and was horrendously hot. The ranger picked up her bedroll and dragged it outside onto the grass. Looking around her, she was surprised to see that nobody else was doing the same. She had seen the soldiers sleep outside before, yet tonight they seemed inclined to stay out of sight. A tent was no obstacle to a fully grown werewolf, but it offered some illusion of safety to the nervous officers.

Arrow had been so distracted by the disturbing vision, she had forgotten that tonight was full moon.

She did not forget for long. As she opened her eyes from her evening prayers to Ilmater, she felt hot dog-breath on her face. Fear coursed through her as she crouched nose-to-muzzle with the enormous golden wolf and she screamed at the top of her lungs.

"Get a grip Arrow!" snapped Freya, transforming back into a human. "Moonrise isn't for hours. Where the fuck is Rasaad? This is the whole bleeding reason I got him to come to Dragonspear in the first place, and now I can't find the useless sod!"

" _You_ got him to come?" Arrow echoed, irritated. She could have been spared a lot of grief if the blasted man had stayed in Baldur's Gate as he had originally intended. "Well now I'm extra-inclined to help you Freya. I definitely owe you something for keeping Rasaad in my life. A black eye possibly?"

"You use humour to mask pain," the wolf observed, annoyingly. "The more stressed you are the more sarcastic you get. Had you noticed?"

"That is a really bad habit you've got there," snapped Arrow.

"What?" asked Freya mildly. "Oh, you mean trying to psychoanalyse people? Sorry. Side effect of being raised by therapists. It just slips out sometimes. Especially around this time of month." She looked up. Jaheira and Khalid had heard Arrow's scream and were pelting over to make sure she was alright, though Khalid was holding his head and running at a strange angle. Rasaad was also coming as fast as he was able on his dragon-scorched legs. "There you are monk! About fucking time!"

"What is happening?" Rasaad cried.

"Arrow is being a hysterical pussy," Freya barked impatiently. "And where the hell have you been? Seriously Rasaad, you have to pick tonight to pull this shit? Useless bloody arsehole!"

"Alright," Jaheira nodded. "Come on Khalid, you need to rest your head. Back to bed. Now!"

"Y- y- yes dear."

"Hang on a minute Ma!" cried Arrow, as Jaheira steered Khalid around. The warrior swayed slightly as he walked, still clutching his temple where Rasaad and Minsc had struck him. "You once fired me as party leader for being 'too blunt.' Said I have the charisma of a sewer dog if I recall-"

"Actually that was M- Montaron," Khalid corrected her fairly.

"-and yet you are ok with… with this?" she waved an arm at Freya. The werewolf narrowed her grey eyes at her and made a low rumbling noise in her throat.

"Ok. Firstly," said Freya jabbing her private waterskin at Arrow, "I once met an ogre who had more charisma than you, even after I made him a necklace out of his own guts and secondly…" She belched loudly. "Secondly I have witnessed you shooting your own party members on multiple occasions. Unlike you I've never accidentally slaughtered any of my own allies. So, yeah. I am a better party leader than you. Rasaad, back me up here."

"I think we had better get your chains and find a nice tree," the monk replied diplomatically. He pulled the blonde wolf up by the hand. She slunk after him, turning around to snarl at Arrow as she went, curling back her lip to expose her teeth.

"You haven't brushed this morning have you?" Arrow demanded coldly.

"Bite me. Or I'll bite you." Freya sneered. Rasaad's tattooed hand latched on her arm and began to half-drag her from the camp. Fortunately, before Arrow could provoke her further, they saw Dorn emerging from Dynaheir's tent. Freya immediately began to walk away.

"What's the matter? Are you frightened of him?" mocked Arrow. Rasaad cursed under his breath. He had been so close to calming his fellow Selunite down. Was Arrow winding her up intentionally to make his night more difficult? The werewolf, however, merely let out a snort of derision.

"Frightened?" Freya barked. "Hardly, but even with your human sense of smell you must have noticed that Dorn's odour could topple an elephant from twenty paces! The stench makes my eyes water so badly there's a chance he might actually blind me and beat me that way. I dunno how Dynaheir stands it."

Arrow snorted. There was a long pause.

"I've never done anything to you," Freya observed. "Why don't you trust me?"

"Viconia is manipulative and you're gullible," Arrow replied flatly. Her brown eyes caught Freya's grey. "And I think Bhaal wanted his children to kill each other. I think we're hard-wired for it."

"Oh yes, we definitely are," agreed Freya. Arrow stared at her. "The temple of Cyric we purged; it used to be a Bhaal temple. I saw things down there, remembered things. In a sense we _are_ Bhaal. All of us. He split his soul into thousands of fragments to ride out the Time of Troubles knowing that his enemies would not be able to hunt them all down in time. Remember what Sarevok said? The lake becomes the droplets and the droplets become the lake."

"That's why he had his priests start slaughtering the babies as soon as the Time of Troubles was over," Rasaad nodded thoughtfully. "He wanted to speed the process up!"

"Madele said they didn't get enough," Freya nodded. "Listen, Arrow, I didn't just see Bhaal on Boareskyr Bridge, I remembered what it was to be him. We are him."

"I don't believe that!" Arrow snapped, shaking her head. Yet hadn't Ur-Gothoz addressed her as Bhaal? To the demon lord, at least, there was no distinction between Bhaal and his children. "I won't believe that!"

"Believe whatever you want," growled Freya, growing unstable again. "If it makes you feel better. Believe your Ilmatari bullshit makes a difference. But the truth is we are what we are. So we might as well do whatever the fuck we want."

Rasaad yanked her arm again and she followed him, leaving Arrow to her disturbing thoughts. They retrieved the chains and after a while the wolf seemed to notice that she was following instead of leading. With a rough growl, she thrust Rasaad firmly behind her and turned back teeth bared. Then she walked ahead of him toward the treeline.

"If you do not mind me mentioning it Freya, you seem a little… edgy." Rasaad remarked.

"Did I ask for your opinion beta?" Freya snarled, her voice dropping an octave and taking on a gutteral tone. "Back in line!"

Freya had already chosen her tree. It was a plump middle-aged oak with a solid trunk, just out of sight of the camp. 'Edgy' did not even begin to cover her feelings at this point. Full moon made her anxious and ratty even at the best of times but this situation was fraught with peculiar danger. Were she to somehow escape or (more likely) some foolish Flaming Fist officer were to approach her on a dare, there could be a bloodbath. They had been warned and warned but young, bored people were prone to doing stupid things, as Freya knew better than anyone.

Moreover Irenicus was still after her, and he was weakening with time which meant he must be growing increasingly desperate. Freya was more dangerous at full moon, but at the same time more vulnerable. This presented an obvious opportunity for the Hooded Man to attack. She lifted her head and sniffed the air.

Rasaad. She had spent enough time with him now to recognize the smell of his shaving oil. He washed too frequently and it masked his natural scent, something that the werewolf always found a little disconcerting. Yet he did not over-perfume like Edwin nor reek like Dorn. She took another deep breath. Ash, food, and the medley of scents from the camp. More subtle green odours of moss and ferns. Rotting leaf mulch at their feet. It was hard to discern much of anything in this cacophony of smells. She took a third deep breath, concentrating hard now, and her jaw set. Death and decay. Distant, but not that distant.

"He's here," she said grimly.

"Should I warn the others?" Rasaad asked.

"No, let them sleep," Freya replied. "Corwin and the Duke know that he might pick tonight to make a move. The wards are set and the soldiers are as close as I can risk letting them get anyway." She took a deep, shaky breath. "Fuck."

With the monk's help she began wrapping the chains round and round the tree. They were dwarf forged, commissioned especially for her by Gorion. She clipped the collar around her throat but left the manacles off for now. They were too small to fit comfortably around human ankles, having been designed for paws. Once she put them on she would have to transform and stay that way. Her eyes drifted to the orange glow of the sinking sun. They had a while.

"So tell me Freya, what is all this about you 'being Bhaal?'" Rasaad asked peaceably, settling himself opposite her. Inside, he too was rather worried about Irenicus, but no good could come from letting Freya see that. "I notice you have been drinking more since we visited your father's former temple, and even more after that incident on the bridge."

"Those flashbacks I saw of Bhaal, they weren't like visions," said Freya, who'd had her share of those and knew the difference. "They were more like memories. I saw through his eyes, felt what he felt and I know his plan. He divided his soul between hundreds of us, thousands maybe, to escape Cyric and survive the Time of Troubles. Now that all of that is over, we're supposed to die and blend back together so that he can reform. Kinda like Imoen but on a massive scale."

"The last one standing is the new Lord of Murder? Is that what you are saying?" asked Rasaad.

"No, I don't think that is the idea at all!" Freya answered. "Me and Arrow, Eric and Sarevok. Even Imoen, I suppose. We are not Bhaal's heirs like Sarevok used to think. We're him. The lake becomes the droplets and the droplets become the lake."

She gave the chains an experimental tug just to make sure. They gave a familiar metallic clang. To her surprise a faint, calm smile was playing over the monk's serene face. He was keeping an eye on the sky, waiting for the moon. Freya glared up into the clouds. For as long as she could remember she had been a follower of Selune, but now she felt sure that the Moon Maiden considered her an enemy.

"Why are you laughing?" she demanded of Rasaad. "None of this matters. It doesn't matter what I do, or who I am. In the end I'm going to become _him_ again. All of us are, and there is nothing we can do about it!"

The monk tore his dark eyes from the sky and looked at her with sympathy. Fear of one's own inner darkness was something he could readily relate to but this was ridiculous. The idea that Arowan might be Bhaal, or even a slice of Bhaal, was patently nonsense. Even a woman as unwise as Freya had to see how daft it was, were it not for her full moon paranoia.

"You are not Bhaal," said Rasaad with scathing certainty, "And Arowan definitely isn't Bhaal. Even if what you say is true, by the sheer act of staying alive you two are delaying his return and that has to count for something."

"But I'll be him," Freya moaned despairingly. "I won't go to Selune's light when I die, I'll join my brothers in the Abyss. But that's not even the worst of it! Eventually, one way or another, I'm going to become Bhaal."

"Or he's become you?" suggested Rasaad.

There was a long pause. A thought-crease appeared between Freya's wolfish eyes. Rasaad peered at her, squinting slightly. Charisma, particularly the magically enhanced kind, worked best for first impressions. Over time, as one got to know the person, the effect tended to wane. Perhaps it was his imagination but, to him, the Hero of Baldur's Gate was starting to look a little lanky and awkward.

"What?" she barked.

"Why not?" reasoned Rasaad. "If you can remember Bhaal's life who's to say he wouldn't remember yours? Why should the original Bhaal's vote count for more than yours does? Perhaps the new Bhaal would be better than his predecessor."

"Huh." Freya said. For his part, Rasaad was not taking this conversation particularly seriously. He did not for an instant truly believe that Freya and Arrow were Bhaal, if for no other reason than that would make the two sisters essentially the same person, which clearly they were not. Yet in indulging Freya's line of thinking, the Selunite had inadvertently stumbled closer to the truth than every Candlekeep monk who had ever studied Alaundo's prophecies.

"Let's talk about your drinking," suggested Rasaad. A cricket chirruped in the distance and they both flinched instinctively. Freya inhaled again, but the scent of Irenicus remained faint.

"Let's talk about Arowan," countered Freya. They narrowed their eyes at each other, but in a battle of wills the werewolf had the more assertive personality. She had no intention of discussing her drinking. The truth was that she was well aware that it was becoming a problem, and it was in the back of her mind that she had to do something about it at some point. But not now. She had too many other things to worry about. "You have a bit of a masochistic streak, you know that right? Why not just ask her back to your tent? Worst that could happen is she might say no."

"You are wrong, the worst that could happen is that she might say yes. A relationship between us couldn't possibly work!" Rasaad cried. "Even in the unlikely event that my order accepted her, Arrow couldn't live in a monastery! She can't even tolerate cities for long!"

Freya laughed at him. She picked up a small stone from the leaf litter and tossed it up and down in her hand.

"You think too far ahead," she told him. "Stressing about where you will live, when you've no prospect of settling down for months, maybe years? Besides it's pointless worrying about what will happen after all this, when there's a good chance we'll die in battle anyway. Why not just enjoy the present?"

"That is a chaotic approach to life," Rasaad said.

"You struggle to cope with chaos don't you?" she observed shrewdly, catching the stone in her large palm. "Understandable for a child raised on the streets."

"Does every conversation with you wind up turning into a therapy session?" Rasaad teased.

"I can't help it, it's habit. Blame the monks."

"You are right," he mused. "I do 'struggle to cope with chaos' although I had not found a way to articulate that until now. Thank you Freya. You have given me much to think about."

"Then let us resume our meditations," she said, licking her lips wistfully, "Full moon approaches and your neck is pulsing in an extremely appetizing way this evening."

"Ha! I am learning to tell when you are joking!" Rasaad beamed. His smile was quickly replaced by a nervous look. Freya was looking at him in a way no woman had ever looked at him before, but quite a few monsters had. It was disturbingly similar to the way the Cyric-dragon had watched him talk, right before it barbequed his legs. "You… er… You are joking, right? Right?"

Freya grinned wolfishly.

"Maybe yes, maybe no. The question is whether you can figure it out before I pounce!"

Her laughter was cut short by a sudden breeze from the woods, carrying with it a rotting unnatural scent. Irenicus was closer now. Freya froze and her gut started to pound unpleasantly. Very soon the sun would set, and though dragging the wolf off would be no easy feat even for Irenicus, her mind would be absent. Control of the situation was entirely out of her hands.

"He is coming?" the monk asked. She nodded mutely. He took a deep breath. "Freya there is something you should know."

In the last minutes before sundown, Rasaad told her about Irenicus's visits to him in the city. Of the offer he had made to leave Arowan alone if he handed over her stronger sister. As he spoke Freya's fangs began to poke out from under her lip. Her muscles were twitching in a way eerily reminiscent of the werewolf they had been forced to kill in the Iron Throne building.

"You were considering taking him up on it? Wow, and they say _I'm_ the dumb one!" growled Freya. Rasaad blinked. "Had it occurred to you, arsehole, that Irenicus might have been lying to you? Arrow is not the Hero of Baldur's Gate. Duke Silvershield and the Flaming fist have zero interest in protecting her, other than that _I told them to_. Right now the only thing standing between Arrow and Irenicus is me. Take me out of the equation and there is nothing to prevent him from swanning off with her whenever he fancies!"

"I… you are right, of course," said Rasaad, who had been so concerned with the morality of Irenicus's bargain that he had not stopped to consider the practicalities. He had nothing but the creepy wizard's word for it that once he had Freya he wouldn't take Arrow too. And without Freya, what was there to stop him really?

They sat in terse silence for a while and, at length, Freya clipped on the ankle manacles. This had to be done in human form, since in a moment's time she would no longer have hands, but they pinched horribly. Almost at once her feet began to turn red as the circulation cut out. Then the sun slipped over the horizon and the landscape shifted from pale orange to darkness.

A long, ominous howl erupted from Freya's throat, and her companion backed away to a safe distance. 'Safe' in this instance meant out of reach of the chains. She attempted to adopt a Selunite pose. Every so often, when the full moon rose, Freya fought it and attempted to keep her human mind and body. It was, of course, a futile effort. Nobody had ever succeeded save for a few specialist druids and they prepared for years in advance of being bitten. Never before though had the Bitch of Baldur's Gate had a greater incentive to keep what brains she had.

It was no use. The thought of Rasaad having secret conversations with Irenicus made her blood boil. No amount of reciting the mantras of the moon goddess was going to drive that thought from her mind. Blasted humans, no fucking sense of pack loyalty! She ought to tear him limb from limb! Without warning, Freya threw herself to the end of her chains with a fierce snarl. They clanged and choked her throat, preventing her from coming closer. Still, Rasaad jerked backward instinctively. The werewolf's eyes were wild and her teeth seemed sharper than normal.

"By the way Rasaad," growled Freya, who was on all fours shaking. "Do you reckon you could have picked a worse time to remind me that I can't trust anyone? And to tell me that you (who I thought of as a good mate by the way) have been chewing over whether to double cross me all this time?"

"I apologise…" the monk began, sincerely.

"No, no. Don't worry your hairless little head about it!" the werewolf replied sarcastically. Tufts of honey-gold fur were bursting through her clothes. They always transformed with her. Magic was a handy thing. "Right when I most need to hold my aggression in check, you decide to tell me something cast-iron guaranteed to piss me off. Couldn't have saved it till morning? Just had to get it off your chest _right now_ hmm?"

"Forgive me I-"

"If I end up eating you tonight you have nobody but yourself to blame," Freya growled.

"That is fair."

With that she transformed the rest of the way. Nobody got much sleep that night. The wolf was highly agitated. She could smell Irenicus, the smell of death, coming closer and closer. Unlike her human counterpart, Freya the Wolf had no notion of what the fetid stench was. Only that it was not right. She wanted to run from the smell, but the chains prevented her. She threw herself against them, howling at the top of her lungs then whining miserably.

"Arrow! Arrow wake up!" Skie shook the ranger urgently. Imoen was hanging over her shoulder, a blanket wrapped about her shoulders looking petrified.

"I'm already awake. We all are!" snapped Arrow. There was no sleeping with the racket Freya was making.

"This isn't right!" Skie insisted. Her makeup was pillow smudged and her hair a state but she did not seem to care. "All the full moons that passed in the palace and I've never heard her make a noise like this."

"Not in Candlekeep either," Imoen added.

"I tried telling Daddy!" Skie whispered. "Corwin wanted to send out the troops but he won't let her. I think he's scared of both of them- Irenicus and Freya! Corwin's gone to gather her party, they're going to wait with Rasaad."

Arrow's first impulse was to roll over and go back to sleep. Rasaad, Viconia, Edwin and the Grand Duke's boot-licking Captain? Fantastic. Let Irenicus polish off the lot of them, or better yet they could be eaten by Freya. Yet, reluctantly, she found herself getting out of her bedroll, flinging on her armour and raising her own party from their bedrolls.

A guttural, wolfish wail spurred her to move faster, toward the edge of the wood where Corwin and Bence were waiting with the others.

"Corporal Duncan, take Skie back to her tent!" Corwin ordered immediately. Arrow had never seen the soldier looking so worried. Her quiver was slung over her back at an odd angle, she had put it on so hastily. "Arrow you couldn't hurt a cave bear with that!" she snapped, waving a hand at the crumby bow she had scavenged from the Quartermaster. "Go with Bence, he'll give you my spare, then report back here. Everyone else let's move! Nobody is to approach the werewolf, understood?"

Bence seized a protesting Skie by her collar and frogmarched her back to her tent. On the way they stopped by Corwin's and he pointed to the bow. Arrow picked it up and stared at it for a moment. It was the best weapon she had ever held. The string gave a magical twang when she strummed it, and it was impossibly light for its size. She stroked her fingers over the flawless finish.

"Today would be nice Bhaalspawn!" Bence puffed. He was out of breath from wrestling Skie, who was bitterly complaining about not being allowed to go with the others. "Corwin didn't give you that thing so you could drool on it!"

He was right, Corwin required the backup. As soon as the adventurers stepped out of sight of camp they found themselves surrounded by shadowy figures. Dynaheir began whispering protective spells as did Viconia, though she feared for Rasaad injured and alone with the wolf. Jaheira, who was on her own turf in the forest, immediately summoned bears to their aid. Minsc, Khalid and Dorn drew their swords. Corwin selected an acid arrow and pointed it into the blackness, her bow stretching back with a slow creak.

The tension was broken by Edwin whose first response, as always, was to hurl a fireball at the nearest enemy. It lit the faces of their opponents and transformed one of them into a bipedal inferno. It screamed soundlessly, combusting far more easily than a normal creature would do and disintegrating into a pile of ashes. Where it had stood a little grey cloud hovered uselessly.

"Vampires!" cried Corwin. "Form an outward facing circle and keep moving toward Freya. Nobody is to break off alone!"

Unwilling to stand still and be incinerated, Bodhi and her fledglings closed in for the kill. Her first move was to charm Jaheira, which turned out to be highly effective since it brought the bears onto her side. Dorn swung Rancor in a wide arc, apparently intending to cut down the hostile druid, but found Khalid's sword blocking him. Edwin shrieked in panic and dived behind Dynaheir to escape the approaching bears. She eyed him with a disgusted expression and readied her Magic Missiles.

Arrow set off at a run back the way she had come but when she reached the treeline she skidded to a halt. The orange flash from Edwin's fireball lit up the woods momentarily. She tried running toward it but found her way blocked by entangling roots. Unbeknownst to Arrow these were the work of a charmed Jaheira, to keep away reinforcements from the Flaming Fist. She peered into the wood but though she could hear fighting all she could see was total blackness beyond the first tree. Quietly she drew a flaming arrow, trying to use its light to see by. She ought to be afraid but with her new bow she had never been so powerful, and for the moment she felt strong. She leaned forward on her toes over the vines, squinting into the trees.

_Snap._

Arrow pivoted around so fast that her assailant fumbled his katana in shock. Her arrow point smouldered at his throat, dangerously close to his short black beard. She found herself facing the same Kara-Turan warrior she had crossed paths with on the road from Baldur's Gate. Her eyes flew to his neck but there were no tell-tale puncture marks to suggest that he had been turned. His long black hair was bound back in a harsh ponytail and somebody had upgraded his armour. Other than that he looked exactly the same.

"You!" they both cried in unison. It was Arrow who recovered from her surprise first. "What in the hells?"

"I might ask you the same question!" hissed Yoshimo. "Tell me you are not defending the monster who murdered my sister!"

"You work for Irenicus?" Arrow cried, incensed. "I let those refugees leave with you! You bastard, you absolute bastard! What did you do to them?"

"What? Nothing! They're in Baldur's Gate where I left them!" Yoshimo yelped. He looked so sincerely shocked by the accusation that Arrow believed him. "And who is Irenicus? I work for Bodhi and her brother."

"Bodhi… Bodhi…" Arrow panted. The name rang a bell. "That vampire who asked Edwin to get Freya on her own? So, you work for someone who works for Irenicus. That's not much better!"

"Says the woman who works for Freya!" Yoshimo spat.

"I don't work for Freya! Screw you!" Arrow retorted.

"An interesting offer. Apologies, but I will have to pass on this occasion. I am a little preoccupied at present," replied Yoshimo with an ironic bow.

It was a ridiculous attempt at humour given the severity of the situation. Arrow snorted and a tiny splutter of laughter escaped her. Yoshimo smiled too, a disarming roguish smile. Hells! What was she supposed to do now? She could loose her arrow and kill him, but she doubted any amount of pleading on her part would induce the Flaming Fist to resurrect him. If she let him go, presumably he would join the attack on her friends.

This would hardly be necessary, however. Her friends were more preoccupied with fighting each other. Jaheira was summoning wolves and kobolds to replace the first wave of bears. In her charmed state she kept smacking Khalid over the back of head with her staff, even as her semi-concussed husband was throwing all his strength at keeping Dorn away from her. He was aided in this by Minsc, but unfortunately this meant that the berserker was neglecting his witch.

Seizing his opportunity to backstab Dynaheir, Edwin had tried, literally, to do just that. While Corwin fought on valiantly, taking out the fledgling vampires with her acid arrows one at a time, witch and wizard loaded themselves with defensive spells. Soon Dynaheir and Edwin were directing their magics not at the enemy but at each other. This, in turn, was starting to attract Dorn's attention and he moved in to defend his mate, leaving an opening for Khalid to slice his hamstrings. All the while Viconia, angsting more than she would care to admit about Rasaad's safety, could do no more than try to heal the wounds her allies were inflicting on themselves.

Bodhi rolled her eyes. This lot were a waste of her powers. Despite his warnings not to, she slunk deeper into the wood to assist her brother in capturing the werewolf. Viconia was right to worry. Rasaad, whose legs were still only half-recovered from his battle with the dragon was standing between Irenicus and Freya. The werewolf was alternating between abject whimpering and insane aggression. Neither one moved the Hooded Man in the slightest.

"Rasaad. I confess myself surprised to see you here. Have you perhaps reconsidered my offer?" Irenicus asked him coldly.

"I would die before I would aid you!" the monk spat.

"And you will have that opportunity, I am sure," the wizard sneered indifferently. Rasaad found himself ensnared in a holding spell. Last time the Hooded Man had done this, he had been unable to fight the curse. Yet things had changed. He had fought a dragon, trained with the strongest woman in Faerun and what's more it was full moon. The blessings of his goddess were never more powerful than on nights when he stood beneath her full gaze.

Rasaad could move, but he pretended he could not. He was remembering an incident in Beregost, long ago, when Viconia had used the same trick on Xan. There was a time when he would have considered the drow's deceitful tactics beneath him, but life had been simpler then. In those days he had seen far less grey area between right and wrong.

"And here we have The Hero of Baldur's Gate," Irenicus declared, ignoring frozen Rasaad and advancing on the shivering canine. She responded with a defiant, frightened little noise somewhere between a bark and a yelp. He smelled as though he were rotting from the inside. A clammy, putrid aroma that should not belong to anything living, yet lacked the dry, dusty quality of true undead. Irenicus tried a Hold-Monster spell on her, just on the off-chance. Had she been in possession of her human mind, Freya might have tried to trick him as Rasaad was doing. Instead she threw the curse off effortlessly and snapped her large jaws.

Irenicus had been given a long time to muse on this and had a few strategies to subdue the werewolf. He had even snared a couple of her feral brethren to practise with. Capturing them alive had been relatively easy, (though they had not survived being Bodhi's playthings afterward) yet they were not adequate preparation for facing the Hero of Baldur's Gate. This was because, as far as he knew, Freya was the most magically enhanced mortal creature who had ever existed. Gorion had read her every magical book in the Candlekeep library. Books to enhance her strength, skill and endurance as well as charisma.

If killing her were an option, that would be no challenge at all while she was nicely chained up like this. Unfortunately he required her alive and transportable. None of the spells he was placing on her were sticking. Bursts of light pulsed in rapid succession from his hands to her furry face like a sideways firework display, but to no avail. They were merely making her angry and him tired. Irenicus cursed in frustration. His chance was slipping away and he needed to think!

"Need some help brother?" a sing-song voice trilled from behind him.

"Not now Bodhi!" Irenicus roared. The last thing he needed was her irritating distraction. "I told you to take care of Freya's party. I warned you what would happen if you disobeyed me!"

"They're taken care of already!" Bodhi replied, sticking out her bottom lip petulantly. She circled poor, immobile Rasaad like a hungry shark. "Except this one. You've caught a nice specimen here. I don't know whether to eat him or turn him."

"Do what you like with him but do it quietly!" Irenicus bellowed. "Or so help me…"

"I think I'll turn you," purred Bodhi silkily. "I can find lots of uses for a man like you. A follower of the Sun Soul, you are commanded to seek light but I sense much darkness within you. What have you lost, I wonder, to find yourself in such a state?"

"Everything," Rasaad replied bitterly. "I have lost everything."

"Such a limited worldview," sighed Bodhi. "Your lack of imagination saddens me. You have much more to lose."

"One way or another I will have silence!" Irenicus warned, his voice rising perilously as the werewolf threw off another of his sedative spells. Nothing seemed to be working and he was fast running out of ideas.

"Come," Bodhi whispered, pressing her mouth to Rasaad's throat as she spoke. "I will show you."

"You will show me nothing, monster!" the monk declared. A blinding light filled the glade as he called down a sunray. Bodhi wailed in shock and pain as the cone of daylight seared through her eyes, her flesh, filling the aching gap where her soul had once been. He had never used this gift before, it had come to him after the battle with the dragon. It stung Rasaad's own eyes, but blinking against its glare, he saw Bodhi's skin melting from her face.

Her cry went on and on, until her throat and all the rest of her had dissolved away, leaving only a sad little gas cloud to drift away into the night. Irenicus turned around, his cold lizard-like eyes a portrait of callousness.

"Saves me the bother," Irenicus stated. He turned his attention back to Freya. "As for you, child of Bhaal, it appears that we are doing this the hard way!"

With a wave of his hand, the locks fastening her chains unclicked. The collar and cuffs fell from her throat and ankles. The wolf's grey eyes darted around, at first in confusion and then ecstasy. For the first time in her life she was unchained! She bounded forward like an elated puppy. The wolf still half-expected the familiar yank on her throat as she reached the end of her leash but it never came. Free!

All those crunchy little humans in the camp were hers for the taking. No more birds or sticks or passing squirrels. She'd take a bite out of every one and then put them back. Freya had no concept of names in this state, but Bence's smug face floated to the top of her small dog-like mind. She licked her muzzle with her long, flag tongue. But first to get rid of this semi-dead thing with the metal in its flesh. It'd be no good for eating, but she did not like it and it was in her territory.

Freya's response was more ferocious and sudden than Irenicus had anticipated, given her cowering and whimpering moments before. She launched herself at him and only a hastily erected series of skins and shields managed to keep the wolf at bay. With rabid determination she slashed and snapped at his barriers so that he was spending more energy replacing them than attempting to fight back.

This had been the situation the last time they had faced each other too, only then Freya had needed the backing of an army. Yet she had grown stronger and he weaker, and now it seemed she needed no-one. The Sun Soul monk was raining down punches on his defences as well, gradually eroding them with burning fists. It was about to get worse for him. With Bodhi's death, the charm on Jaheira lifted, and soon both her own and Freya's parties joined the melee. All except for Edwin who had been sliced open by Dorn for attempting to murder Dynaheir, and was slowly bleeding to death in the wood.

"Fools! Infants!" Irenicus cried, knowing that he had blown his opportunity. "Very well, but if I cannot contain her what makes you think that you can? You will be begging me to dispose of her for you by the time she is done!"

With that he vanished. Though he was invisible to Freya's eyes, there was no hiding from her nose. Irenicus cast a series of dimension doors, stepping back in various degrees. The source of the smell jumping around was confusing to her canine brain and she soon lost interest in favour of more succulent targets.

"Freya! Freya it's me!" cried Corwin urgently, as the wolf crept forward with obvious intent.

"You swore to protect me! I am the…" Viconia paused with a sideways look at Dorn. "You know who I am. You cannot eat me!"

A thin glob of drool slowly oozed downward from the werewolf's jaws. Her massive golden paws pressed on silently and decisively, crushing leaves to powder with every step.

"Freya, you must come back into Selune's light!" cried Rasaad. "I know that somewhere in there the human part of you is listening to me. Step back, I beg you. Do not make us harm you!"

"S-s-stay back!" warned Khalid.

"I will disembowel you from gut to gullet, wolf!" Dorn promised with relish.

Yet even he knew it was a fight that he probably could not win. Before the wolf could pounce, Imoen ran forward. It put Freya off for a second. She was confused. Why was this human pink? And why did it feel secure enough to turn its back on her? Like most predators, she hesitated in the face of inexplicably confident prey.

For little Imoen was pointing her dagger not at the monster behind her but at the other adventurers. The tiny, inadequate weapon shook in her hands, for she knew beyond question that she stood no chance against them _or_ Freya. Yet she was made of pieces of the Candlekeep Bhaalspawns' souls and she would die, kill or do anything else before allowing one of them to come to harm.

"Any of you hurt her," Imoen promised in a tremulous voice, "And I'll kill you."

Freya leapt at Imoen and her jaws snapped shut, but at once a magical shield sprang up around her. The others were impressed, but it was not Imoen's work. The shield had been placed by Irenicus. If Imoen were to die then she would take her piece of Freya's soul with her into the Abyss. He would no longer be able to detach it to remove the werewolf's soul intact, and his prize would be lost to him forever. Freya backed away, pawing at her sore teeth and whimpering, but it was not long before she was back up and snarling at her friends again. Imoen let out a great sob as Irenicus's laughter seemed to come at them from all angles.

"BAD DOG!"

Freya froze and looked around. How she had managed to give Bence the slip this time, she never found out, but Skie was storming through the trees. She had a furious expression on her face and a handful of rolled up letters. Ignoring Corwin's horrified protests, she marched right up to the werewolf and struck her sharply on the nose with the papers.

"VERY BAD DOG!" she hollered at the top of her voice, never breaking eye contact. "SIT!"

"This will not work little Skie!" Minsc cried in alarm. "Only Boo can go near her at full moon and even he would not risk it when she's in this mood. You must back away slowly."

"I AM BACKING NOWHERE. YOU ARE MY DOG AND YOU _WILL_ SIT!" Skie thundered.

Poor confused Freya. One moment she was an unchained wolf, finally free to hunt the juicy sacks of meat as nature intended before bounding off forever into the wood. She'd had them cornered, quivering prey. Then out of nowhere, Alpha had come. Alpha was mad at her, and she had no idea why. Her hind legs gave way from under her and she sat down and whined.

To Corwin's abject horror, Skie reached down a hand and petted her muzzle. Inside, the young aristocrat was terrified. She had heard stories of what happened to smaller animals (Boo being the one exemption) who ventured too close to Freya at full moon. Yet if the wolf attacked, the army would put her down, and she could not allow that to happen. Besides, her auntie had bred show dogs and knew more about canines than anyone in Baldur's Gate. She had always told Skie that a dog's love is superior to a human's; eternal and wholly unconditional. This sentiment may have been based in part on her Aunt's four failed engagements, but apparently she was right.

Freya closed her eyes and whimpered, crushingly relieved that her Alpha was no longer angry with her. She let Skie lead her back to the hated chains and clip the largest around her neck simply to appease her. When her Alpha commanded her to stay, she sat on her haunches obediently, though her heart ached with misery watching Skie's retreating back.

Until, that is, Skie was out of range of the chains and Corwin caught a hold of her. She was grabbing, roughly handling, raising her voice to her. In response, Freya went utterly berserk, heaving herself against the metal, writhing and twisting in an effort to free herself. Her grey eyes were locked on Corwin in an expression of murderous fury. The Flaming Fist captain was hauling Skie off back to camp where Freya could not reach her and the wolf cried and cried.

The adventurers remained in a ring around Freya's tree for the remainder of the night. By the time dawn crept over the horizon, the wolf had worn herself out howling and struggling. She woke to the scratch of leaves and twigs against her cheek as she shrunk down into her human form and let out a shuddering sob. It was the worst full moon she'd had since the ones that followed Gorion's death. Yet she had survived and so had everyone else. By the time next full moon rolled around Caelar would be dealt with and she would be safely back in her city. Irenicus's best opportunity had come and gone, and he had failed to take her.

"Ha!" she boomed, jolting her exhausted companions out of their reverie.

Her enemy, however, was not as disappointed as Freya supposed. Though his plan to take her at full moon had failed, he now had a much better one. It had always been very apparent that kidnapping her friends, even Coran and Imoen, to use as bait was not going to work. The Hero, when it came right down to it, was not quite heroic enough to sacrifice herself for them. But he had not known about Skie. Now he did. He idly tightened the bolts on his long, pale fingers which had become loose during his casting.

"Well Bodhi, it is a long trip back to your coffin in Athkatla but it seems you were not inconvenienced for nothing," Irenicus whispered to the angry little cloud of disembodied gas floating beside him. "I told you I would find a way to lure Freya out from the Flaming Fist's protection and now we have our bait."


	36. Flux and Fidelity

Edwin groaned weakly. Every breath sent spasms of pain down his torso. The last thing he remembered was deflecting a spell from that accursed Rashemen before the half-orc eclipsed her. There had been a flash of steel, a feeling like a damn bursting in his midriff and the surreal sight of his insides spilling about his knees. He'd sunk to his knees and then… nothing.

"Get up, Thayan," an icy voice demanded.

Edwin looked up with difficulty. He was not so affected by Irenicus's strange appearance as most people. Magical body modification was not unusual amongst Red Wizards of a certain age. Attempts to fend off mortality, weakness and aching joints by use of grafts and bones were fairly standard among his people. The bolts on this man's skin were weird, but Edwin had seen a lot weirder. What did bother him was that Irenicus had taken the Soultaker dagger from him and was twirling it between his fingers.

"You will return that," Edwin demanded coldly. He rose to his feet painfully. At least his abdomen had been closed and his insides were no longer trying to escape. "Who healed me? Viconia? An amateurish job as usual, but I expect no better from the quack cleric of Shar."

"I healed you," Irenicus replied idly, spinning Soultaker by its point on one of the bolts on his forearm. "The others believe that you are dead. If they knew differently they'd be back to finish you off. I'm afraid I cannot return the dagger to you, I need it. Call it payment for saving your life."

"No, no, no!" Edwin howled in frustration and fear. He could no longer return to his party and had lost the dagger. His odds of successfully assassinating Dynaheir were starting to look non-existent.

"You should have taken my sister's original offer," Irenicus remarked. "The terms have changed. They are less generous now. We are still prepared to destroy your witch for you but in return we will require your services."

"For how long?" demanded Edwin suspiciously.

"One year."

"No."

"Do not be a fool! One year of minimally dangerous activity then we will return you to Thay with enough gold to settle your remaining debts," Irenicus demanded. "And in the meantime I will provide your silver-haired boyfriend with sufficient funds to set up a truly spectacular fighting pit. By the time all this is over you will be well on your way to recovering your family's former wealth."

"What would I have to do?" asked Edwin warily.

"First, deliver this to Athkatla," said Irenicus. He placed a wax-sealed box into the Red Wizard's hands. "Then find somewhere to stay for a few days while you await further instructions."

Edwin hefted the box. It was solid mahogany but had no special decorations. No gems or gold leaf, nor could he sense any magical properties about it that would make it worthy of such a special delivery boy. His nail flicked the wax curiously.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Just Bodhi," Irenicus replied with an amused smirk. "She will arrive faster on horseback than she will as a slowly drifting gas cloud. Ride to Athkatla. Break the seal to release her anywhere in the city and she will make her own way back to her coffin. Don't open it in foul weather of course. Turn her loose in a storm and she might end up being blown out to sea. It could take her years to find her way home," he added thoughtfully.

Edwin sighed and twirled the end of his beard between thumb and forefinger. A year was not so long and it was not really as though he had much choice in the matter. It should give Baeloth sufficient time to get their business venture off the ground. Then he could return home in triumph, pockets full and witch dead. A hard bargain but not a terrible one.

"And it is not as though you were looking forward to seeing the drow sorcerer again, no Odesseiron," he mumbled. His dark eyebrows knotted and he looked into Irenicus's marbled face. "Very well."

Not far from where the wizards stood, Arrow and Yoshimo were trying to work out what to do. They had been up most of the night in a sort of stalemate. Every so often a sorry little cloud would drift past them through the trees, a defeated vampire off to regenerate. Eventually the entangling vines had receded and they might have rejoined the battle. Fortunately by the time they noticed, Corwin was already dragging a loudly whinging Skie back to camp, so it was clear that they were not needed. Both Ilmatari had put their weapons away, having no reason or desire to hurt each other.

"Arowan you must get out of here," Yoshimo whispered urgently. "Bad things are about to happen and you should not be near the Bhaalspawn when they do."

"I don't have a whole lot of choice there," Arrow replied dryly. Yoshimo looked puzzled. "There's another Bhaalspawn." The Kura-Turan was still gazing at her quizzically. She sighed. "That would be me."

Yoshimo's face fell. Arrow's hand was halfway to her fancy new bow in case he chose to respond by attacking her. She had found that if she notched the string with no arrow, one would appear between her fingers, which made her much faster to attack and less vulnerable to melee fighters. The ranger had no intention of returning this bow to Corwin if she could avoid it. She did not need it here though. Yoshimo made no move to draw his katana. He simply looked sad.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know," he said in a low voice.

"There's a lot you don't know about your new bosses too," Arrow said fervently. "And I hope you never have to find out."

Loud crunching footsteps were marching toward them. From gaps between the dense foliage, Arrow could make out the reds and silvers of the Flaming Fist uniform. Instinctively, she shoved Yoshimo behind a large tree and strode out to meet them.

"Captain! Over here!" An officer called. More footsteps followed, running this time and three patrols converged in front of her. Arrow raised her hands cautiously, hoping that Corwin would not ask for her bow back.

"It's just me!" Arrow replied.

"Anyone else down there?" barked Corwin. "And where the hells were you?"

"Nobody," lied Arrow. "Those entangling vines caught me by the ankle. I got stuck. Is everyone ok?"

"Yes, except for Edwin, he's dead. And the vampire he told us about. She and her little friends have floated off to regenerate somewhere. We've no idea where their lairs are though so there's not much chance of staking them," Corwin panted, running her fingers through her hair distractedly. The Captain had not told Duke Silvershield about Skie's timely intervention with Freya, but she was afraid someone else might. Bence's head would roll for sure for letting her get so close to a werewolf, and perhaps hers and Freya's too.

"Alright," said Arrow. "When are we moving out? Do I have time to check my snares?"

"You have all morning," snapped Corwin. "We're going nowhere until after lunch. Nobody slept last night, or did you not hear the howling your blasted sister was making?"

She led her patrol away in search of any vampires they might have missed. Arrow watched until she was sure they had gone, then squatted down beside Yoshimo who was crouching nervously behind his tree. Corwin had not mentioned the bow, and Arrow stroked it covetously as she spoke.

"Couldn't you just run away?" Arrow suggested. "I doubt they'd bother coming after you. Irenicus never went after Baeloth and he was right here for the taking. So why would he scout the Kara-Turan continent looking for you?"

"I can't run away!" Yoshimo whispered desperately. He held up his finger and on it was placed a ring. Arrow was suddenly powerfully reminded of her brother, Eric, and the geas ring that Baeloth had placed on him. Something on the edge of her subconscious was jumping up and down trying to get her attention. Had she been afforded the luxury of more thinking time, she might have remembered another ring from the Black Pits. Grey stones flecked with green just like Eric's eyes, placed on Bubbles' finger by the young necromancer before the lovers parted forever. As it was, Yoshimo was her immediate problem.

"So what exactly are you planning to do? If you try to attack Freya she'll kill you, cert and sure!" Arrow warned him.

"I wasn't ordered to attack her, I was supposed to distract the rest of you," Yoshimo replied, wringing his shiny black hair anxiously around his free hand. "I mean they said 'distract' rather than 'fight' so I had an excuse to talk to you all night instead of trying to attack."

"Geas spells. You have to be so careful with the wording," muttered Arrow, remembering Baeloth's genie Najim who had been a master at finding little loopholes. Yoshimo got the impression that the ranger was doing some quick thinking. "Who was it put the ring on you? Did Irenicus do it himself?"

"No, Bodhi. I didn't even know who Irenicus was until you told me," replied Yoshimo. "But does it matter?"

"Of course it does!" cried Arrow. "It means she can't give you any more orders until she regenerates. Where is her lair? Can we stake her and free you that way?"

"No," moaned Yoshimo, shaking his head miserably. "It is somewhere in Athkatla. I do not know where exactly."

"Then go to Athkatla. At least it will buy you some time," pressed Arrow. She shook her head at the geas ring despairingly, not sure whether she should warn Yoshimo or not. In the end she decided she'd better. "Your new master is evil. He practises torture, slavery and gods know what else."

"Good! I hope he tortures Freya!" Yoshimo replied, his expression hardening.

Arrow smacked his face hard. He stumbled backward, reeling in surprise.

"You idiot!" she spat. She would have screamed at him but that would have brought the Fist running. "You have no idea who you've tied yourself to. You are in way over your head! If I were you I'd forget Freya, she's the least of your problems now. Concentrate on getting yourself out of this mess."

"I'm not sure I can," said Yoshimo bleakly.

"Then I hope the church of Ilmater has plenty of shrines in Athkatla," sighed Arrow. "Because I have a feeling that you will be visiting them a lot. Goodbye Yoshimo."

"Farewell Arowan."

Arrow was quiet for the rest of the morning. Her mind kept drifting back to her fellow Ilmatari. He was an utter dope but in a sweet sort of way. He had, after all, come all this way looking for his sister, protected those refugees and was brave enough to take on a werewolf. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth which swiftly vanished when she thought of all the terrible things Bodhi and Irenicus might try to make him do. And what they might do to him if he refused. Over the following days while they marched, she spent much of her time trying to think of ways Yoshimo might escape his current predicament, but nothing came to mind.

Edwin's apparent death-by-Dorn came as no great shock to anybody. Aside from Freya's mild irritation at having lost both her wizards, he went wholly unmissed. Minsc went so far as to offer to let Dorn hold Boo (a gesture of friendship which was indelicately declined) though Dynaheir was most appreciative. The Rashemen was not blind to Dorn's evil disposition, though perhaps she might not have bedded him so readily had she realised quite _how_ bad he was. It was part of the appeal along with his strength. The other part was his loyalty. Though she would never admit it, even to herself, the violent demise of her would-be murderer was an outcome she had secretly been hoping for ever since she first took the Blackguard to her tent.

The Baldur's Gate regiment's rendezvous with the main army passed without incident, with little sign of Caelar and none at all of Irenicus. Every so often a Crusader scout would be spotted in the distance but they always retreated and by the time they reached their journey's end everyone had grown rather bored. Skie especially. She was fed up with marching, tired of drills and sick to death of her father's company. Bence kept catching the young aristocrat gazing off in the direction of Dragonspear with such blatant intent that the poor Corporal hardly dared to sleep.

Their allied generals had greeted Freya then she, Corwin and Duke Silvershield had gone off to wherever the important people went to talk. Arrow's existence, as usual, had gone ignored and she found herself wandering aimlessly around the camp in search of something to occupy herself with. It was similar to the Flaming Fist camp but with the benefit of a wooden wall and on a larger scale. More importantly they had better provisions and a large supply of grog. It was not long before the Flaming Fist were making themselves at home, playing dice and drinking.

All was not so well as it seemed, however, and Arrow found a familiar friend lurking in the shadows. In a sphiny of tents tucked away toward the back of the camp dozens of soldiers were moaning, clutching their guts and stumbling to and from the privy pots. After her work in the Chapel of Ilmater, Arrow did not need a werewolf's senses to recognize the stench.

"Oh gods," she muttered to Khalid. "Dysentery."

"We should help them," Jaheira said, though her stiff tone suggested that she would really rather not. A rare wobble of fear had crept into the druid's voice. Dysentery was a sickness of cities, armies and crowded places. It was not something she often came across in the wilds and her knowledge was limited. Dorn, too, seemed reluctant to go near that section of the camp. He did not fear to shed blood, unless it took the form of bloody stool. Then, as it transpired, he was very afraid indeed.

They introduced themselves to the Healer, though getting her attention was no easy task. Her curly mousey hair was escaping from her bun and dark circles bloomed under her eyes. She had a distracted, harassed look about her and the peculiarly unfocussed expression of one long deprived of sleep. They caught her running the short distance between the tents that had been nestled into a corner, as far away as possible from everybody else.

"Call me Dosia, everyone else does," she said. "I am the cleric with the unenviable task of running the Healer's tent here. Or tent _s_ now. Sickness runs rampant through the camp. Dysentery, of a sort."

"What do you mean of a sort?" asked Arrow, who knew from her own experience in the Chapel of Ilmater that dysentery was pretty unambiguous. "It is or it isn't."

Dorn's lip was curling and his nose wrinkling back like a concertina. There was nowhere he could place his large feet that was not streaked with faeces. The air had a thick, unwholesome quality to it and was heaving with moans and sobs. A repulsive cacophony of weakness.

"It is not a natural sickness," Dosia replied grimly. "A while ago a pair of acolytes of Ilmater arrived offering to help me. At the time there was little for them to do, so I sent them on to Baldur's Gate to assist our chapel there with the refugee crisis. Just after they left that's when the dysentery outbreak started. The poor things must have carried it from their last assignment."

"They've spread it to the Chapel of Ilmater!" Arrow cried, clapping her hand over her mouth. She cast her mind back to the acolyte pair. Unlike the priest they had rarely spoken to her, but she had put it down to exhaustion. The priest himself was dead now. Coran said he had died from dysentery contracted from the refugees he served. She was starting to doubt that this was truly an accident. "These acolytes, where did they come from?"

"They were students of one of Caelar's followers, a priest named Hephernaan* I believe," Dosia replied.

"What?" yelped Arrow. "And you sent them to Baldur's Gate?"

"The Holy Church of Ilmater does not take sides in war young lady!" Dosia reprimanded her haughtily.

"I don't think that man is a real Ilmatari," the ranger said, casting a stricken look to Jaheira. She had only met Hephernaan once, when Caelar's men had blown up their bridge across the Winding Water, but he had made a lasting impression. She remembered him looming on a pile of rubble, watching her hungrily with those strange black eyes. "I'm not even sure he's a real human."

To Dorn's dismay, Arrow had them set about cleaning the repellent victims. He wrapped a cloak about his face to cover his nose as he worked, which the party found ironic given that his own smell was not very much weaker. Minsc was soon excused as it turned out that he and Boo had no stomach for this sort of work. His spirit was willing but his body was gagging so often as he tried to scrub the putrid mess, that he ended up adding to the medley of body fluids rather than removing them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rasaad was watching from a distance. Only keeping his distance wasn't helping. Arrow was still his first thought in the morning and the last image in his head at night. Only now he'd hurt her and this time he wasn't sure whether he could make things right again. He would say that she was avoiding him like the plague. Except that his Arowan would never dream of avoiding plague victims. Instead she was on her hands and knees with a damp rag risking her own health to help them. Having her hate him was more than he could stand.

Dynaheir, as much to find an alternative to bedpans than anything else, began trying to get to the root of the sickness. Between her lore and Jaheira's they managed to piece together a possible treatment but it would require ingredients not readily found on the surface; cave moss and myconid spores. The contagion, they deduced, had been cultivated beneath the ground. From the subterranean too must come the cure.

As luck would have it (good luck or bad luck Arrow was not sure) Freya's party were headed into the depths as well. The werewolf refused to tell her why they were going. In truth, the generals had asked her to plant explosives beneath Dragonspear Castle and poison Caelar's underground supply lines. Freya assumed, correctly, that if Arrow got wind of this plan then she would attempt to prevent it. At first, she and Corwin were reticent about allowing the Ilmatari to accompany them. Then Jaheira pointed out that rank was no protection against the scourge of dysentery and that either one of them might contract the disease themselves. This prompted the officers to reconsider.

"What is it with this pathological need to help people all the time?" Freya asked with a sigh, as they assembled with their packs at the gates.

"Arrow is the least selfish person I've ever met!" Rasaad protested. Arrow scoffed. She neither needed nor wanted the monk to stand up for her.

"Is she?" asked Freya. "Or are you just compensating, Arrow? You know you'll never really be liked so you settle for being needed?"

"Stop trying to get into my head!" groaned Arrow. "We spend enough time in each other's brains when we're sleeping, I don't need you sifting through my mind when I'm awake as well!"

"I'd better check out with His Lordship," Corwin said, jerking a thumb at Duke Silvershield's tent. "And make sure Bence knows where we're going. Wait here, I'll be right back."

"Yes Sir!" Freya replied with a friendly smile. She watched Corwin's retreating back with undisguised appreciation. Rasaad leaned forward slyly and snapped his fingers in front of her face.

Freya jumped and glanced around her. A lot of people were looking back. She had been marching with the Flaming Fist for so long now that the novelty had worn off. These new soldiers were not used to having the Hero of Baldur's Gate around. She had been swamped by curious admirers when she had first arrived, and though the story of what happened on Boareskyr Bridge made a few of them edgy, her astronomical charisma was more than compensating.

"Is Corwin your lady of the week?" asked Arrow raising an eyebrow. "I thought it was Skie… or Viconia? Honestly, I'm losing track. Though anyone is an improvement on Officer Vai I suppose."

"Bit of this, bit of that," shrugged Freya lightly, taking advantage of Coran's absence to steal one of his catchphrases. "I couldn't commit to one woman, I'd be depriving all the others."

"Commitment has its advantages you know," said Jaheira.

In reality, Freya would have liked nothing better than commitment. Marriage, with a home and family of her own, was her deepest wish but one she had always felt unlikely to come true. Who, after all, would wish to tie herself to a lycanthropic Bhaalspawn? Even if she were to find a woman mad enough to volunteer, she doubted her own fitness as a parent. Freya did not tell them this. She had no desire to expose her underbelly to Arrow's family. Or the 'Treehuggers' as Viconia sometimes referred to them.

"Yeah, yeah," growled Freya. "Commitment. I'm sure your deep and spiritual bond with Khalid is far more rewarding than actually getting laid."

"My friend," Rasaad piped up urgently. He had been on the receiving end of a Harper sex-talk himself and could not allow his party leader to wander into the lion's jaws so blindly. "I urge you not to continue down this line of conversation."

"No, no. I reckon Jaheira has five times my years and less than half my experience but by all means," Freya pressed on unwisely. "Lecture me about commitment."

"Uh-oh," Arrow grinned wickedly. She caught Rasaad's eye and they both remembered Jaheira's little pep talks. Horrendously embarrassing at the time but funny with hindsight. Even better now that one was about to be inflicted on somebody else. Just for a moment it was like they were friends again. Then Rasaad blinked, Arrow looked away and the moment was gone.

"There are many advantages to commitment," Jaheira informed the young Hero loftily. "The one I had particularly in mind was achieving orgasm."

"Oh?" Freya grinned cockily. Arrow was enjoying her sister's misplaced confidence. It was like watching a dog yapping at a porcupine. She'd soon learn. "If that's what you're after Jaheira you need only say the word. Just ask around. You'll find I have excellent references."

"I am not questioning your own capability when it comes to pleasing women," Jaheira assured her. "Though for someone as wealthy and charismatic as yourself I doubt you even need your enhanced dexterity to retain a partner. I was asking how often _you yourself_ actually peak with your partners? Really I mean?"

Freya spat out her ale. Viconia's ribs were shaking but she refused to let out her squeaking laugh in front of Jaheira. She wondered what the druid would make of the Hero's recent bedroom activities with her. In fairness the half-elf was right, for Freya certainly hadn't come.

"As I understand it," Jaheira went on, "Most of the women you've bedded are accustomed to men, who are generally easier to pleasure. Unlike you they are not practised with the female body. Frankly, I do not believe for an instant that first time around they always manage to make you-"

Freya turned to Rasaad in utter bemusement.

"Is this a piss-take?" she asked the monk. Though he was not the victim this time, the poor man was turning red just from listening to this sort of talk. Seeing that no help would be coming from him, Freya went down the route of bravado instead. She took a long swig out of her private water skin, ignoring Rasaad's judgemental frown about her drinking and grinned broadly at Jaheira. "If they can't, what better tutor than me? Hells, I could give your Calishites some tips too if you like. Verbal only. No practicals."

"Oh please do!" begged Viconia. "Tell Khalid and Rasaad what you're into. We can take bets on which one faints first! Fifty gold pieces on the moon monk!" Then she frowned, suddenly remembering the coin she had placed on Rasaad winning his fight against Minsc. Still there was no hope of a refund now that Edwin was dead. Typical male. Anything to avoid giving his mistress what was owed.

"I assume she's referring to some sort of violent element in your intercourse?" Jaheira asked sharply. This was a great deal too close to the mark for Freya's liking. She'd put up a good defence, but in the end the druid had succeeded in rattling her just like all her other victims. "Are you using protection?"

"What? No! Of course not! Do you even know where babies come from?" spluttered Freya. "The fuck do I need protection for?"

"What your friend is alluding to comes with a much higher risk of contracting infections, particularly if there is any blood involved," Jaheira explained in a matronly way. "The same applies to oral sex at certain times of month. We'll return to this topic later. Getting back to the original subject though…"

"What the shit is happening?" yelped Freya.

"Suck it up. Jaheira's sex talks, we've all had to endure them at some point," said Arrow darkly.

"On the other hand, with ten years of exclusive practise Khalid's technique is almost perfect. Do not underestimate the benefits of a practised hand," Jaheira went on, ignoring the way her husband was turning as red as his hair and burying his face into his hands.

"Oh no, I don't want to hear this! I'm going back to scrubbing the dysentery tents, it'll be less gross!" retched Arrow. "Good luck Freya. Let me know when Corwin comes back."

But the ranger was not quick enough.

"…and with a long term partner you get to learn more about what the other person likes!" Jaheira said. Freya's jaw was scraping the floor, but there was much worse to come. "For example, I happen to know of a case of a man who cannot always stay up for the duration of intercourse. _Grow up Viconia it's a common problem!_ In his case, his committed partner knows that this can usually be remedied with light anal stimulation. But how would a casual lover know that?"

"How do _you_ know that?" Rasaad asked ill-advisedly.

"I'm pretty sure she's talking about Dad," Arrow groaned, making heaving motions.

"N- n- n- no she d- definitely i- i- isn't!" Khalid lied hastily.

"Enough Jaheira!" begged Freya, finally defeated. "I'm serious, what will it take? Potions? Money? Fuck, I'll even give you my dragonscale armour and both my swords. Just please make this stop!"

Freya's wish was granted, though not in the way she would have liked. At that moment, Corwin ran back to the party, to tell them that Skie was gone. Their only solace was that she had gone of her own volition rather than being taken by force. Yet they would need to find her quickly. She was last seen heading toward Dragonspear Castle, alone.

"Sorry Arrow, it looks like we're going to have to postpone our little outing," Freya said turning pale. "Rasaad, Viconia, Corwin, with me. Pray we find her before they do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find anything canon stating specifically which god Hephernaan was claiming to be a cleric of. Since his boss Belhifet was known to impersonate an Ilmatari I didn't think it was too much of a stretch that his servant might do the same. Saves them buying a new set of robes after all.
> 
> Haven't had a Jaheira sex-ed lesson since Shifting Targets. Felt like we were overdue.


	37. Dragonspear Castle

**1356\. Dragonspear Castle.**

Maire's doe-like eyes widened and she turned pale at the scene before her. From this distance Dragonspear castle was like an anthill. Demons beyond count were clinging to the outer walls and the inside would be equally packed. Nothing but the size of the portal itself limited their flow into Faerun. Grand Duke Silvershield, whose pinched face and calculating eyes were barely distinguishable from those of his descendant, Skie's father, watched on resolutely. Behind him stood the armies of Baldur's Gate and her allied cities.

A young woman was approaching him on horseback. The animal, a yellow-white warhorse with angry blue eyes, clopped to a halt before him. Its rider did not greet him, or even bother to dismount. She surveyed the pair of them from above with an evil sneer.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said.

"I do as my Lord commands," replied Madele stiffly. The Duke bit his lip to stop it from curling and he tried to hide his distaste. The green-eyed commander with her wild black hair had not yet been tortured and had her life stretched by the followers of Cyric. She still retained the aura of a natural human. Yet already she had tattooed Bhaal's foul markings over her slender frame and filed her teeth into points.

"Is that… _him?_ " asked Maire. Madele followed her gaze and nodded proudly. The god forced to walk in mortal form was paying them no attention. He stood at the head of his own army of followers, his eyes locked keenly on Dragonspear.

Bhaal had already fathered many of his children and was much diminished. Yet the body he had been assigned retained a great deal of its strength and beauty. He cut a grim figure, with black hair falling to his shoulders and a short beard. Grey eyes flashed beneath heavy brows. His chiselled features and sturdy build set him apart from his followers, a dark-cloaked army bearing his mark on their armour.

"Is he going to come to us or should we go to him?" the Duke asked uncertainly, after a pause.

"Do you plan to bend the knee before the almighty Lord of Murder and swear your eternal allegiance on pain of the damnation of your soul?" Madele asked sweetly. "No? Then I suggest you stay exactly where you are!"

The Duke opened his mouth to protest. If they were to fight together, surely they should co-ordinate their attack. Yet without warning a horn blasted from the Bhaal Cult ranks and their mortal god drew a vast broadsword. An inhuman war cry raged from his lungs as he led the charge toward Dragonspear. Thousands of gleaming red eyes fixed on him and those demons who possessed wings launched themselves in a vast swarm from the walls of the castle.

"He's leading the attack himself?" Duke Silvershield raised an eyebrow. "I never expected honour from the god of murder."

"Don't be insipid. He just likes killing," spat Madele. Abandoning the Duke, she selected a pair of daggers, one dripping poison the other reeking of acid, and followed her master to war.

"Maire, you have to leave now," Silvershield said gently, as the ranks of Baldur's Gate marched forward. He touched her cheek tenderly. "Go back to our city and wait for me there."

"No!" Maire cried. "If we lose this war the demons will come for all of us anyway. I'm staying here!" The Duke shook his head. He could not spare the men to drag her back to the city by force and he knew that nothing he could say would persuade her to go. Maire gave him a watery smile and said sadly, "Besides without your bard, who will sing songs of your victory here today?"

"I don't know that I want a song commemorating the day I had to fight alongside Bhaal," Duke Silvershield laughed. "I will come back soon my love. I promise."

…

**Present Day**

While Jaheira's party tended to the sick and dying as best they could, Freya's were half-running toward Dragonspear castle. They did not waste their breath with conversation. Duke Silvershield had been beside himself with dismay at his daughter's disappearance, begging Corwin in abject terror to bring her back safely. Yet the Captain was under no illusions that his grief was liable to turn violent if they dared return without her. Corporal Bence Duncan, who had been personally tasked with watching her, would be beheaded for sure. Corwin did not fancy her or Freya's chances, as the other two senior officers. Viconia would doubtless share their punishment, since drow tended to be blamed by default. Even Rasaad and Arowan's party might not escape the Duke's rage.

Freya was moving faster than any of them. She was afraid, not only for her own skin, but for Skie. Her concern for the young aristocrat was not lost on Corwin. The captain told herself that it was probably for the best. After all, little Rohma had already had enough unsuitable step-parents. Her eyes drifted to the Hero's resolute jaw and steely grey eyes. Freya was crude, irresponsible and utterly immature. She would make a terrible carer. But she was also fun and loyal. She might, and Corwin kicked herself for thinking this, make a pretty awesome breadwinner.

"Fear not abbil, the young rivvil has proven herself surprisingly capable thus far," Viconia said. Freya smiled appreciatively at her and the drow could barely suppress a chuckle. Manipulating the furry dunce was almost too easy. Yet to her great surprise, she was growing rather attached to their little party; her, Freya and Rasaad.

When she had been adventuring with Jaheira's party she had always had a sense that she was walking on eggshells. From the outset she had been a charity case; it was clear that neither the druid nor her adopted daughter liked her very much. It had felt as though she had been constantly one mistake away from being cast out to fend for herself. Even Khalid had made no secret of his disapproval and as for Xan… her fingers flexed murderously at the thought of that gutless darthiir.

Being part of Freya's party was different, not least because she felt like she really _was_ part of Freya's party rather than some unwelcome guest. Of all the races she had dealt with since fleeing to the surface werewolves, she had decided, were her favourite. The Hero's canine nature made it easy to trust her, because her behaviour was so reassuringly predictable. Show her a pretty woman and she'd start drooling. Tease her and risk getting slurped in the face. Cross her Skie and prepare to be eaten. No surprises and no subtlety. Viconia felt safe.

As for Rasaad. Viconia shot a sideways glance at the moon monk. The sun was already low in the sky and the shadows of the trees stretched longer than the trunks themselves. This low light highlighted his muscles making him seem even larger, though he hardly needed the help. He was still following his feeble Milk Maiden and, for reasons that she struggled to fathom, moping over Arowan. Yet he was certainly improving. Freya was a good influence. He embarrassed less easily and launched into sanctimonious moralizing less readily. Slowly but surely the werewolf was corrupting him, nudging Rasaad out of the light.

Unbeknownst to her, Rasaad was observing the same thing happening in reverse. Viconia, he noticed with pleasant surprise, seemed to be better under Freya's leadership. The cleric laughed more and threatened people less. Recently they'd been able to have entire conversations where she'd only insulted him once or twice. So it was that without Sharran or Selunite realising it, the charismatic werewolf was contaminating their light and dark world views with her own morally ambiguous greyness.

"Well fuck me."

Dragonspear loomed before them and the sight momentarily distracted even Freya from Skie. The castle was half-rubble from the many wars which had blighted the place. The great white skeleton of a dragon curled around the highest towers, her bones glowing orange in the failing light. It emerged from a sea of evergreen pines, stretching out toward a calm endless lake.

The golden Hero remained staring at the castle, her mouth slightly ajar and flaming sunset reflecting in her grey eyes. She drew Sarevok's broadsword and leaned heavily on it, and her hair fanned out behind her. A warm glow spread through her of familiarity and love. The most powerful sense of being somewhere she belonged. For a moment it drove all other thoughts from her mind.

"Freya?" Rasaad ventured after a moment. "Are you alright?"

"There was a reason I was on that bridge," she replied steadily, as the memories came flooding back. "I'd asked Madele to bring me here. She tried to persuade me to stay in the temple and hide but I had to see it again, one last time. I never made it though. Cyric got me first."

"Sergeant Candlekeep!" snapped Corwin, who disliked it when Freya talked like this. "We need to find Skie and get out of here. We're surrounded by our enemies, remember?"

Freya took a deep breath. The air was clean and clear here, though it hadn't always been. When the demons had poured out from the portal, a heaving mass of twisted bodies pulsating around the castle, she had stood on this spot. She'd watched the damned, sword in hand while pretty Maire bid her husband farewell. Then she and the Grand Duke had led their forces to drive them out. The greatest battle of her mortal lives. Tens of thousands of demons had fallen under their blades that day, a slaughter fit for the Lord of Murder. Afterward, as they sat drinking atop a great mountain of their fallen enemies, she remembered thinking that it was not such a terrible fate to live and die a mortal hero.

Yet it wasn't to be. All over the Sword Coast, Bhaalspawn already wailed in their cradles. More were stirring in their mothers' bellies. The plan was in motion and failure to see it through would only mean returning as a weaker god. The lake becomes the droplets, and the droplets must become the lake. Maire was long dead and there was a new Duke Silvershield. A coward unfit to bear the name of his glorious ancestor. And his daughter who so resembled Maire was…

"Damn! Skie!" Freya yelped, snapping out of it. "I've caught her scent. She's around here somewhere. I'll be able to track her if I transform, follow me!"

They followed the wolf through the pine trees, barely able to keep up with the flickering yellow tail ahead of them. She led them close to the rubble of the castle itself deep in the valley and transformed back. As Corwin, Rasaad and Viconia caught up with her, she raised onto her toes and edged forward cautiously.

"Leave me alone! Leave me alone you animals!" Skie wailed.

She had been backed into a corner by three crusaders. Two of their fellows lay dead at her feet, but they had disarmed her. Now they were debating whether to kill her right there or bring her in alive for interrogation.

"Look what she did to Corinth and Valis!" grunted one, gesturing to the bodies. "I say we cut off her pretty nose!"

"Don't be foolish," simpered their leader in an oily voice. "This little madam is a Flaming Fist spy. She's worth more to us than Corinth, Valis and their entire combined families. We'll make a pile of gold turning her in!"

Freya expected Corwin to shoot the mercenaries where they stood but to her astonishment the Captain had frozen. She was staring at their leader with a nauseous expression. Rasaad and Viconia paused in puzzlement, awaiting the order to retrieve Skie, but still Corwin did not move.

"Er… Schael? What's wrong?" whispered Freya.

"I hoped I'd never see that face again," Corwin replied in a low voice. "That man over there, I killed him once. And then four more times."

"You killed the same male five times?" Viconia said archly. "Congratulations. My personal record is only three, and that was the combined effort of my whole party, not just my own hand. I am almost impressed."

"It was a personal matter," said Corwin repressively. "And his family have powerful friends in the Lathanderian clergy so I knew he wouldn't stay dead. Well, I didn't _know_ it, but hearing he's back has never surprised me. I'd hoped our last meeting would stay our last. Hells! Freya, can you three tackle this without me? I don't want him to recognize me."

"He looks to be a mercenary rather than a true Crusader," remarked Rasaad. "Perhaps if you know each other we could get some information."

Corwin scoffed. The mercenaries were still debating what to do about Skie but their third fellow spotted them and tapped the others. As they turned toward them, calculatingly, Freya got a good look at the man's face for the first time. He had slick black hair and a moist smirk. If he knew Corwin, he did not recognize her beneath her helmet. Instead he was watching Freya with an expression she was used to seeing from men. Owing to her immense strength she did not find such attention threatening, but it was repulsively undignified to watch grown men dribbling like babies. Her hands reached automatically for her twin swords.

"I can't imagine Beno willingly telling us anything useful," Corwin muttered. "There's no love left for me in his cowardly heart."

"Left?" Freya raised an eyebrow. "So there was love once? For that?"

"I was young, angry and rebellious then," Corwin replied defensively. "I'm not that woman anymore. Whatever Beno and I shared is long dead. I got Rohma, so I'm not complaining. Is something _funny_ Sergeant Candlekeep?"

"Yeah! Bugger me, but isn't he a dead ringer for Eldoth?" Freya barked, clutching her sides. Corwin stared at the Hero, eyes bulging with rage. "Dammmmn. No wonder you're so harsh on Skie. It must be like looking in a mirror. Does he make the same pig noises as Eldoth in bed? I bet he does. He looks like a squealer."

"One of these days," Corwin snapped, drawing her Fist-issue sword and holding the point to Freya's throat, "I swear I am going to cut you to pieces and sell you to Lucky Aleppo's. There's already plenty of dog meat in his kebabs so you'll be in good company."

"You can't call werewolves dogs," Freya reminded her tersely. "So this guy is Rohma's father?"

The mercenaries were eyeing them warily, weighing their options. Attack them? Run? Try to grab the spy and then run? They did not fancy their chances, the numbers were not in their favour. At the same time they were reluctant to give up their profitable prize.

"He was there when she was conceived, he was never her father," spat Corwin. "When I told him about Rohma… I was young and stupid then. Becoming a mother smartened me up fast." She glared at Freya defiantly. "Whatever I do in this life, whatever regrets I have, Rohma is not one of them. I love her."

"Corwin?" Skie yelled suddenly. She had been so preoccupied with the murderous mercenaries that she had only just spotted that help had arrived. "What do you think you're playing at? Stop standing around and help me! They're going to kill me!"

"Corwin?" Beno echoed. A nasty leer appeared on his face, and suddenly his caution was replaced by a swaggering confidence that made Freya wonder how serious Corwin had really been in her attempts to kill him. "Helm's steely eye, is that you?"

"Beno," Corwin growled. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "You and your thugs can't possibly win here. The smart thing to do would be to get lost. Quickly."

Freya and Viconia exchanged a look and shrugged. Neither of them really understood the problem, or Corwin's embarrassment. The silver lining to the many disadvantages that Freya's preferences offered her in life, was that slut shaming did not apply to her in the same way. Others tended to view her sleeping around as at best stud-like or at worst comical. Nobody really imagined that her brief love affairs had 'conquered' or 'got one over' on her. Viconia, on the other hand, was raised in a society where males were entirely disposable and fathers an irrelevance. Only Rasaad, whose Order offered aid to single mothers less fortunate than Corwin, had any inkling of what she was feeling.

"Just answer me one question, Schael. Just one question and I'll let you be on your way," Beno gloated. "How is… what is her name? Rohma, yes? How is my daughter?" Corwin's face contorted with rage and humiliation, making him chuckle. He added mockingly; "I have a right to know about _my_ child."

"Kill him," Corwin choked. Her hand trembled on her bow, though whether with sadness or rage her companions could not tell.

"Schael, I know you've killed him five times yourself but are you absolutely sure?" Freya asked seriously. "Because my enemies always stay dead."

"Another rare achievement," Viconia remarked admiringly. "With resurrection magics so readily available these days."

Freya beamed at her. Unlike Corwin she was in a fine mood. Up until now all of her memories of being her father had been unpleasant but there was something about this place. Something about Dragonspear that made her heart glow. She could not remember everything but she was getting flashes of recollection, ever more vivid and frequent. Though there was no possibility of it right now, while it was crawling with Crusaders, she yearned to step inside the castle once more. Her eyes drifted dreamily toward it, but another impatient screech from Skie brought her back to the present.

"I don't just use twin-sword decapitation because it looks good," Freya told Viconia grimly, referring to her signature move. "Even the best clerics have a hard time reattaching severed heads. Slice the neck in two places at once and it can't be done, guaranteed. When I kill monsters, they stay killed."

"Except vampires," Rasaad chimed in innocently. Viconia spluttered with laughter. This was something else that she could get away with under Freya. The Hero might be scowling at them now for reminding her of how, until recently, she had not known that vampires require staking to stay dead. Yet she would not hold their mocking her against them.

"Excuse me," cut in Beno, "But who are you supposed to be?"

"I am the Bitch of Baldur's Gate." Freya bowed.

"You tell them your name?" snarled Viconia despairingly, "Of all the…"

"Well, well, well," Beno's smirk widened until they could see his gums. His eyes took in Freya's Flaming Fist uniform. "Could it be that Schael Corwin's suckered the Hero of Baldur's Gate into her army? And maybe her arms too? She always had a taste for the ladies. Maybe she should have stuck with that, no risk of any little accidents then."

"If you want a fight, you're pretty close to getting one," Freya grinned, flipping her swords around.

This suggestion received a smattering of sarcastic applause from Skie, who felt strongly that the fighting ought to have started ten minutes ago. Beno's fellow mercenaries looked doubtfully at their leader and then at each other. Wordlessly, they dropped their weapons and fled for the castle as fast as they could run. They'd heard all about the Bitch of Baldur's Gate and her less-than-merciful track record when it came to dealing with enemy soldiers. Beno, however, seemed unshakably confident that Corwin would not let him be killed and this convinced Freya that for all her bravado she did not really want him dead.

"Finish him!" demanded Skie, whose adrenaline was still pounding from her brush with death. She had her suspicions about what those mercenaries might have been planning to do with her before they killed her, and she was in no mood for leniency. Her early squeamishness about execution was rapidly dissipating, the more of war she saw.

"Let's get out of here," muttered Corwin. "We got what we came for. Don't let him rile you up. You're just giving him what he wants if you do."

"Yes, get going, before I tell you what your new lady is really like," Beno smirked. "She puts up a great front. Straight-laced Schael, daughter of the ever-stoic Audamar. Bet she didn't tell you about her younger days, running around with all types getting them into trouble. Likes a bit of everything don't you Corwin? Remember that time you brought Tolla up to the room with us? Two tongues at once…" he sighed nostalgically, and thrust his hips forward in a pointed way. "I tell you, this one spoiled regular women for me afterward." Corwin's face was scarlet, and it was clear that Beno was enjoying her discomfort. "Careful Hero. She'll ruin you like she ruined me!"

At this statement Freya, who had been tapping her sword with an unimpressed expression let out an enormous bark of laughter that echoed down the valley. Forgetting that the noise was likely to attract the attention of the Crusaders, Viconia doubled over squeaking helplessly.

"That's right!" Beno crowed, shooting Corwin a triumphant look. "I could tell you things the so-called 'Captain' has done that…"

"It… it's not that," laughed Freya, leaning on a confused Rasaad for support. "It's more that… er… Corwin might have a hard time 'ruining' me. I'm afraid Viconia has already beaten her to it."

"Beaten is a very suitable choice of word," Viconia boasted smugly. "And after that I broke her hymen with a mace handle. Then I tied her up and left her outside the command tent for her senior officers to find."

"Excuse me, _what?_ " Corwin gaped while Rasaad turned green and made the sign of Selune. For a moment the Captain wondered if the two of them were just making things up to intimidate Beno. If so it appeared to be working. Judging by his expression, this unabashed pronouncement from the two most beautiful women he had ever set eyes on had thrown him off. Then she remembered that Freya _had_ turned up outside the command tent once bound and gagged. Schael rolled her eyes heavenward. "That's just great."

"Corwin is going to have a hard time topping that," Freya nodded to Beno, unfazed. She may have failed to face-down one of Jaheira's explicit conversations, but she could certainly outdo this amateur. Summoning all of her charisma, she smiled at Beno, as radiant and powerful as the shining sun.

"Unless she tries to fuck your arse," Viconia quipped.

"Not happening. Gotta draw the line somewhere," shrugged Freya.

Skie goggled at the pair of them, growing increasingly incensed. Not so much because Freya had slept with Viconia, she had seen that coming a mile away. Not even because of the revelations about the Hero's sex life. She had never allowed Skie to reciprocate pleasing her, so she'd long suspected there was something weird going on there. It was more the fact that Freya was prioritising protecting Corwin's feelings over dealing justice to the men who'd tried to kill her. She'd already let two of them get away!

"Get him!" Skie cried furiously.

Beno winced. It was dawning on him that an exiled drow and the woman who called herself 'the Bitch of Baldur's Gate' might be the wrong audience for attempts to embarrass Corwin with shocking stories of her youth. These two were not going to be thrown by anything Corwin had really done and he was struggling to invent a more revolting lie off the top of his head.

"Bah, whatever," he spat. "I've got more important things to do than waste time with a coven of whores."

With a resentful scowl at Corwin, he turned and slunk away, picking up his comrades' abandoned swords as he went. Rasaad, who was trying to block out the disturbing mental image Viconia had planted in his mind, tentatively suggested that they might want to leave, quickly. He was mindful of the volume of the Hero's laugh and the fact that the first two mercenaries to flee were sure to warn their fellow Crusaders the moment they reached the castle gates. Freya and Corwin nodded and turned to go.

"You can't let him leave, he was going to kill me!" Skie screamed petulantly. "What are you waiting for? Freya get him! I said KILL!"

Canine-Freya sprang forward, human-Freya tried to prevent herself from doing so. As a result she stumbled and had to catch herself on her sword. It occurred to Beno, as she crashed loudly, that the Hero of Baldur's Gate was a lot larger than Captain Corwin and that if she did decide to attack him there was little his former lover could do to prevent it. The girl they had been about to capture seemed to have some sort of hold over her. She was loudly insisting that the Hero get on with it. He finally did the sensible thing and ran.

"KILL HIM!" Skie commanded, in the same tone she had used to make Freya sit at full moon.

"NO!" roared Freya. She sank to her knees panting.

"We have to go now!" Rasaad insisted. He took hold of Freya's hand and pulled her to her feet. She shook her golden head as though trying to dislodge something and followed him. Corwin and Viconia fell in behind, the Captain keeping a tight grip on Skie's wrist. They broke into a run at Rasaad's instigation which was wise, because they'd not gone far when they heard the distant clamouring of angry Crusaders.

After a while they slowed to a walk and wanted to know what it was that had possessed Skie to go to Dragonspear in the first place. She told them, with misplaced pride, that she was scouting out the enemy trying to glean useful information. When Corwin pointed out that this might not have been a sensible idea for the daughter of one of the Grand Dukes, Skie threw pine needles at her.

"When father was my age he led his division into a wyvern den and slew them so that the local farms would be safe. Everyone thought he was such a great hero," Skie snapped. "You know how often I've heard that wyvern story? A lot. I've fought worse things than wyverns and won but does Daddy care? Does anyone?"

"Probably more people than you think," remarked Corwin. The cheers after the Bridgefort battle had been loudest for Freya, and probably always would be, whatever the circumstances. Artificially inflated charisma would do that for you. Yet they'd been cheering for Skie too. The younger Silvershield was liked, which was more than could be said for her father these days.

Rasaad's dark brows were knotted. Going alone to Dragonspear was an unusually reckless act even for Skie, and the girl was not stupid. She still seemed to be in a foul, aggressive mood. Every so often she smacked a pine tree making it rain sharp little green needles. She was angry and behaving strangely and he guessed at the reason.

"Pardon me for asking, but did something happen with your father Skie?" he probed. This simple question opened a floodgate.

"Daddy is sending me to Amn," Skie wailed, and without warning she burst into tears. "He's forcing me to get married to someone I've never even met!"

"What? Why?" Freya yelped. Silvershield's impatience with his daughter's behaviour was known, but they had never imagined that he would go to this extreme. He had always given every impression of adoring his last surviving child.

"Because he's a coward!" Skie cried despairingly. "There's dysentery spreading in the city, even the Ducal Palace. The people were already overcrowded and starving, this has pushed them over the edge! He's not here to bravely lead the army, he came to get away from his own people. They've started rebelling since they heard what happened to Glint, there's even a group calling themselves the Blue Beards after him. They're stirring up violence all over Baldur's Gate and he doesn't think our family will survive it. He's sending me away so I'll be 'safe.'"

Corwin blanched. She had known, of course, that the situation in the city was not good. The Duke had not told her that things had grown quite as bad as this. Her daughter was there, with her aging father. Freya was thinking of Coran and Safana, and how the wealth they had carted back with them must paint a target on their backs. As for Rasaad, his mind was on Arrow and her warning about Hephernaan. Was she right that the Crusade had spread this disease on purpose? It was looking increasingly likely, but why?

"I won't let this happen!" Freya insisted. "If you don't want to go nobody is going to force you." She turned to Corwin and added reassuringly; "We'll bring Jaheira's party to the caves and find a cure for this dysentery. It's top priority now. Then we'll kick Caelar's arse to the nine hells and get you home to Rohma."

"The Crusade are evil. We know that now," Corwin retorted, "If they really open that portal to Avernus…"

"I've beaten the demons back before. I can do it again," Freya said. There was something about her voice when she said it. It was always hoarse and wolfish, but now it seemed to drop an octave. For a moment the setting sun caught in her eyes and they seemed to glow golden, as Sarevok's had once done. The line between Bhaal's daughter and Bhaal himself was growing hazy again. Everybody backed away a step.

As the sun slipped over the horizon and the stars came out, Corwin marched on ahead with Skie. The trouble in Baldur's Gate and the threat to Rohma's safety had instilled a fresh sense of urgency in her. Freya, however, paused to look back at the moonlit castle one last time. Though most of Dragonspear was shrouded in shadow, the pale light of Selune glinted off the topmost towers. Her chest swelled with pride and a deep sense of loss and... regret.

"Freya are you _crying?_ " Viconia asked incredulously.

Freya blinked and was surprised to find that there really were tears in her eyes, though crying was a bit of a stretch.

"I… Bhaal… had a chance to be something better here. But he lost it." Freya cast about for the right words. It was hard to pinpoint a feeling that was not attached to any clear memory. "Viconia, you sacrificed hundreds in the name of Lolth. You're as past redemption as I am, or at least as close as any mortal has time to get. Do you ever wish that you could go back, and not become what you are?"

Viconia's red eyes fixed on the castle. The blurred memories of hundreds of sacrifices on Lolth's altar, the bodies of her dead husbands and sister, so many offerings to the Spider Queen that they all blended into one. There was the baby she had not been able to bring herself to slaughter, and her beloved brother condemned to hellish existence as a drider. She replied, barely audibly, "Yes."

"We cannot go back, only forward," Rasaad said sadly. His eyes too were locked on Dragonspear. "We can none of us change what we were, only what we will be."

Freya placed one hand flat on the Selunite's shoulder, and the other on the Sharran's and for a while they stayed like that in silence. Then Corwin bellowed back to them to hurry, the werewolf scented a Crusader patrol on their way, and the three of them turned from the castle.


	38. Into the Caves

"How are you doing Schael?" Freya asked, bounding up the path and pulling the Captain to one side. Sensing that this was a private conversation, Rasaad and Viconia peeled away to flank Skie. Selunite and Sharran kept their eyes fixed on the thief. They had no intention of running around after her in the wilderness again.

"I told you not to use my first name in public!" Corwin snapped. The Hero clasped her hands behind her back with a patient grimace.

"Sir! Permission to speak, Sir! Sir, how are you doing Sir?" Freya barked, with excessive saluting. On the fourth salute, the Hero genuinely struck herself in the eye with her finger and swore loudly. Corwin smiled despite herself. She scooped up a fat pinecone from the floor and shook the bugs out of it.

"I thought, after all this time, that Beno wouldn't be able to hurt me anymore," she sighed. "Or at least that I'd be less angry. I just… every time I see him I want to claw his eyes out! I hate that he can still rile me up like that. I wish I could ignore him. Forget him."

Freya nodded, sympathetically. If they were alone she might have put an arm about her. She hovered on the edge of doing so anyway, so that her arm stuck out awkwardly. Corwin noticed and considered it. She no longer trusted her own judgement when it came to bad relationships. Yet going from Beno to possibly-Bhaal? That had to be out of the frying pan and into the fire by anybody's standards. She began snapping prongs from the pinecone, leaving a trail behind her as they walked.

"Do you still care about him?" Freya asked. She sniffed the air. The scent of conifers was overpowering here, but orcs had been around at some point. She paid it no heed. Orcs were nothing to worry about.

"Gods no!" exclaimed Corwin. "I thought it was love at the time, but it never really came close to that. It was doomed from the start."

She threw the mutilated pinecone bad-temperedly. Freya's canine body jerked forward after it, but she managed to keep a grip on herself. There was a sweet, primal longing in her grey eyes. The other woman could tell that she was itching to chase after it and gave an exasperated sigh. She had been bitten so young that wolf- and human-Freya were often indistinguishable. Yet other times it was like they were at war.

"Like me and Skie then?" Freya said with a half-smile.

Corwin stopped short and took a shaky breath. The werewolf's golden hair was speckled with pine needles that had fallen from the trees. She lifted her hand to stroke a few of them out.

Freya howled in shock. Corwin's hand flinched back, but it turned out the other woman's reaction had nothing to do with what she had done. She craned her head over her shoulder and whimpered in protest. Corwin followed her gaze and to her surprised amusement, a feathered arrow was poking out of the Hero's hefty backside.

"Good thing there's so much padding eh?" grinned Freya, once she'd recovered from her initial alarm. "Pull it out, would you?"

Schael seized the shaft of the arrow and yanked. Unfortunately the head was serrated. Freya howled so loudly that both the Flaming Fist and the Crusaders probably heard her and a large red circle spread from the hole in her bum. With an irritated scowl at her ruined leathers, Freya drew her swords. It was only an orc ambush, and an incredibly lucky shot that had bypassed her armour. The other arrows were bouncing off her with harmless little clicks.

"You don't think you're really in love with her then?" Schael asked. Freya made a non-committal noise and the Captain scowled. She notched an acid arrow and sent it sailing into the eye of a roaring orc just before Skie reached it. The younger woman shot her a filthy look, before moving on to the next one. "What is it with you and Skie? Seriously, I don't get it."

"It's more complicated than you might think," Freya groaned, hacking the flank of a charging orc without bothering to look at it. "The thing is, my people… werewolves I mean… we have instincts when it comes to pack hierarchy. Instincts that are difficult to fight. Excuse me a moment."

Rasaad was on top form, taking down three orcs at once in a blur of hands and feet. His impressive display distracted Viconia, but she was saved from a stray goblin blade by Freya. The werewolf slipped past her with an elaborate (but pointless) forward roll, and slashed her twin blades over the orc's neck as she stood. His rusted ill-fitting helmet did not protect him and his headless corpse flopped into the bracken. The drow rolled her red eyes and healed her leader's arse, though sadly she could not heal the trousers.

The orc leader, a rotten tusked brute, called more of his fellows to join the attack. This suited both Selunites just fine. Soon they were taking the opportunity to perform all of the fanciest, most complicated moves in their repertoire. Skie was too absorbed in proving that she could take out as many orcs as anyone else to notice that they were not taking the battle entirely seriously. The monk performed a truly spectacular spinning kick, only stumbling a half-step on the landing. Freya whirled her swords in a spinning dance that was mesmerizing to watch, until the confused orc leader spoiled it by sticking his sword in the way. The werewolf dropped her left sword as it bounced off of his, but got her own back by skewering him. The Captain and cleric had stopped bothering to help and were watching the others showing off with mature superiority.

Freya and Rasaad's fun ended when the remaining orcs disobligingly ran away. As the monk meandered with Skie back to Viconia, the drow remarked that it was a shame that he did not put his skills to use in the service of Shar. It was as close as she came to giving him a compliment. He reciprocated by informing her, in a tongue-in-cheek way, that her silver hair was nicely reflecting the light of the Moon Maiden.

"Walk not so close to me kivvil," she huffed in response.

"I am certain I know not of what you speak," he replied, but for the rest of the war he was careful to make sure that at least one other person walked between them. It was not, in truth, the reaction that Viconia had been angling for. She had merely hoped to make the moon male blush.

Freya fell into step with Corwin and the pair resumed their conversation. The captain pulled her helmet off and retied her bun. It was the standard Fist way to wear long hair, though Freya had never successfully bullied her own locks into co-operating. They hung in a loose half ponytail around her shoulders, which coincidentally was how her father had worn his.

"So your mooning over Skie is a werewolf thing? That wasn't the answer I was expecting," Corwin said with stiff curiosity. "Go on."

"Not long after we first met Skie managed to convince wolf-me that…" Freya paused and gave an embarrassed little cough. "Schael, I'm not sure I can put this in a way that a human can fully understand."

"Try me," Schael replied.

"Human feelings are complicated, canine emotions aren't," Freya explained slowly as though dredging up the words. "The wolf inside me knows that I'm the strongest, fastest, meanest animal in the pack. It _knows_ I'm Alpha. So naturally it thinks I should be paired with the other Alpha. That's Skie."

"You think that Skie is the Alpha?" Schael asked with a derisory snort.

"Wolf-Freya thinks she is," she sighed resignedly, "It doesn't matter how often human-Freya tries to tell wolf-Freya that she isn't. The stupid mutt is convinced that Skie is running the show and I don't really understand why."

"Would it help if I slapped her about a bit?" the Captain volunteered in an irritated voice.

"You want to be my Alpha instead?" Freya asked, raising a teasing eyebrow. To her delight and amusement, Schael became slightly flustered.

"Let's talk about something else. In fact better yet, let's not talk at all," she said hastily. Freya nodded, but they had not been walking long before the Hero strategically loosened her breast plate and brushed her long hair until it shone like molten gold.

"So, I don't have anything to worry about from Beno then?" Freya ventured. Corwin groaned inwardly, but it seemed that despite her better judgement they were flirting now.

"You don't. Believe me, you don't." Corwin said emphatically. "I on the other hand… I worry so much about Rohma. Whenever I look at Skie Silvershield I see myself at her age. I grew out of my wild behaviour eventually, thanks to my father. Skie hasn't though. Maybe she never will. What if Rohma turns out like that because I wasn't there enough for her?"

Freya glanced back at Skie. The aristocrat was picking her way delicately around a large mud puddle, that the Hero had not noticed. She looked down at her own boots. They were more mud than leather. Yet despite skulking around spying on Dragonspear, Skie's gleamed. She was flitting delicately from dry spot to dry spot, her arms flying out elegantly with every tiny leap.

"When it comes to her father, Skie's got a chip on her shoulder that has nothing to do with physical distance," said Freya. She paused. It felt like a betrayal to tell Corwin this, but Skie had never said it was a secret. Besides, Skie had just attempted to command her like a dog for no good reason, and the werewolf resented it. "Schael tell me this; do you expect Rohma to be a Fist when she grows up like you and your Dad?"

"I'd like that," Corwin replied. "I've dedicated my life to the Fist, and to her. Father was the same. It's a family tradition and it made me who I am. Yes. I'd love it if Rohma decided to join the Flaming Fist. Why?"

"What would you say," Freya said slowly, "If Rohma didn't want to be a Fist? Supposing she wanted to open a shop? Or be an artist? Or become a dashing, charming Hero like me?"

"Just as long as she has your modesty too," Corwin shoved her playfully. Then she chewed the question over seriously. "I'd support Rohma whatever she wanted to do. I mean, within reason obviously. I want her to be happy."

"Then she won't grow up to be Skie," Freya smiled, squeezing Schael's hand discretely. Both women turned to watch Skie leap nimbly from one fallen branch to another. They were slender sticks and would have been ground to sawdust under Freya's feet, but the noblewoman barely bent them. "She got that agile practising ballet believe it or not. Duke Silvershield put her first tutu on her at the age of three. By the time she was a teenager she was one of the most proficient dancers in the city. He paid for tutors every day."

"…and she hated all that girly stuff and wanted to be a warrior," nodded Corwin. It was not an uncommon story for young noblewomen to rebel against their assigned roles. It was hard to receive the best education money could buy, then spend the rest of your life perpetually pregnant and darning socks.

"No, not at all!" exclaimed Freya. "The exact opposite! Skie loved ballet. She practised constantly. She was hoping to turn professional."

Corwin frowned. "Then what was the problem?" she asked. Freya's eyes flickered to Skie again, just to make sure they were not being overheard. She dropped her voice.

"Noblewomen don't perform on stage for the common rabble," Freya whispered. "Her father thought it was a charming hobby to keep his little princess occupied until she found a husband and started popping out his grandchildren. But he never had the least intention of letting her do it for real. She snuck out, naturally. Joined a troupe under a false name, but of course her father found out about it. He threatened to have the Fist close down any playhouse in the city that let her perform. So that was that."

A dragonfly zipped past Freya's cheek. She snapped at it on reflex but was not quite quick enough to catch it. Corwin wanted to think that the werewolf would not really have chewed the bug up, but deep down she knew that hope was in vain. She squirmed a little at this insight into the Duke's parenting. Silvershield was her mentor and had promoted her rapidly through the ranks. She owed him a great deal and was loyal to him to her core. Yet his was undeniably not fatherhood at its finest. He'd encouraged Skie to put her all into her passion, then snatched it out from under her nose. No wonder she defied him at every turn. Corwin picked up a pinecone and tossed it thoughtfully in her hand.

"Sergeant Candlekeep?" she smiled and rolled her eyes.

"Sir?"

"Catch!"

She threw the pinecone as hard as she could ahead of them. Freya's stunning face lit up and she bounded after it like a puppy, jumping to catch it. When she returned and dropped it into Corwin's waiting hands her grey eyes were sparkling. She bounced eagerly on the pads of her feet waiting for her to toss it again, which she did. At least she was catching it in her hands and not her mouth, Corwin reflected. Their game lasted until they were in sight of the camp, both of them enjoying themselves too much to take note of Skie's increasingly anxious expression. As soon as they were in sight of the other soldiers, they dropped the pinecone and fell into step.

They were greeted at the gates by a furious Corporal Duncan. Apparently nobody had informed him about Skie's disappearance, because instead of thanking Freya on bended knee (returning Skie alive had spared him the Duke's wrath) he began berating her instead.

"Freya? What in the hells are you doing here?" hollered Bence.

"Watch your tone boy!" snarled Freya. Rasaad shot her a worried glance. She sounded wolfish. "And that's Sergeant Candlekeep to you!"

"Why aren't you in the caverns underneath Dragonspear?" Bence bellowed at the top of his lungs. "You know, where the commanders told you to go?"

A small crowd of Flaming Fists were pulling off their helmets and gathering to watch. Both commanders were _rumoured_ to be involved with the recruit who was _rumoured_ to be Skie Silvershield. On the long, dull march it had been an entertaining source of gossip and speculation. Nobody wanted to miss their bosses having a fight.

"I got distracted, _Bence,_ " Freya replied dangerously.

"You are here because the Dukes thought you would help the effort!" Bence yelled. "If you can't be bothered, you might as well go back to The Gate!"

"AND YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE TAKING CARE OF SKIE, BENCE!" Freya shouted. "I OUGHT TO SNAP YOUR NECK!"

Freya seized him by the throat and lifted him clear off the ground. The Corporal choked and kicked his feet at her, but it did him no good. Rasaad had been ready for this. He flung himself at her back and wrenched, causing her to lose her footing. The werewolf dropped Bence, who collapsed choking.

"Corwin? Freya? Where is she? Did you find her?" Duke Silvershield was shoving and elbowing people out of the way, trying to push to the front of the gathering. "GET OUT OF MY WAY! Where is my daughter?"

"Right here Sir!" reported Corwin, stepping sharply to attention. "Some of Caelar's men had caught her near Dragonspear Castle, but we got there in time. She's not hurt."

"SKIE!" cried the Duke. Forgetting that her presence was supposed to be a secret, he scooped his daughter up in his arms. Skie rolled her eyes glumly as she half-heartedly hugged him back. Ineffective though his parenting was, there could be no doubt that he loved his daughter. The normally stern politician sobbed with relief into her shoulder. When he finally recovered himself, he seized Corwin's hand, wringing it in gratitude. "Thank you, Captain Corwin. I knew I'd put my faith in the right person. I will never forget this, never!"

"Just doing my duty my lord," replied Corwin, but she looked very pleased just the same.

"And you two, you helped?" the Duke asked, turning next to Rasaad and Viconia. They nodded. "I will never hear a word against your kind again, drow. From this day forth you are under my protection. Any in Baldur's Gate who would harm or harass you will answer to me. And you were quite right about this one!" He clapped Rasaad on his broad arms and beamed at the young monk. "The greatest warrior indeed! Yes, I can see how the presence of such a fine young man would raise morale. A shining example of discipline to the men, exactly right!"

" _You_ said these lovely things about me?" Rasaad blinked at Viconia in surprise. She had never said anything half so nice to his face.

Viconia flushed a deep purple-red. She had said those things, and there was no denying it. Her motivation had been to hurt Arrow by forcing Rasaad's company on her. Yet her words were not very far removed from her true opinion. The egotistical man's face had brightened. He looked insufferably satisfied with himself.

"I… you… stupid male!" was the best she could manage. To her fury Rasaad was still beaming at her. She muttered something untranslatable in drow and looked away.

Now the Duke was turning his attention to Freya. The Hero stood to attention and looked straight ahead. Out of the corner of her vision she saw Corwin give her an encouraging little nod. Silvershield was twirling his beard around his long fingers, and surveying her calculatingly.

"As for you Sergeant Candlekeep," he said softly, "I know whose dangerous influence encouraged my girl to go running off to Dragonspear, and I won't forget that either."

He barged past her, knocking her back a step and took Skie by the arm. Freya's face contorted with fury, but she swallowed it. Skie mouthed the word 'sorry' as she passed, but the werewolf was staring too fixedly ahead to notice. Rasaad and Viconia shared an awkward glance. Even Corwin's mouth was hanging open at the Duke's ungrateful words. She had thought that saving his daughter might be a bonding moment for the two of them, but perhaps that was naive. He was so hated by his people that rebellion had broken out in Baldur's Gate. His jealousy of their beloved Hero must be driving him wild.

Meanwhile the Flaming Fist were buzzing with excitement. They may not have gotten to watch the Hero eat their drill master, but they'd still got a show. Now rumour was confirmed fact, and they were sharing it eagerly with their allies from Daggerford and Waterdeep.

"It _is_ her! That's Skie! Duke Silvershield's daughter!"

"I told you! What did I tell you? Now do you believe me?

"And we all know why she's here, don't we?" gushed the Quartermaster.

"No, why?" asked a young Waterdeep lieutenant. The Quartermaster rubbed his ruddy hands together and plonked himself down in a circle of eager listeners.

"She joined under a false name so that she could follow her lover into war," he beamed. "That's why Duke Silvershield hates the Hero of Baldur's Gate so much. He don't want his daughter marrying a commoner."

The rumour rippled through the camp like a stone tossed into a pond. There was, of course, a grain of truth in it. Freya had been sleeping with Skie from time to time, though the Duke's wayward daughter had also been sharing bedrolls with Bence. Yet the way it was told and retold romanticised their relationship beyond all recognition. Before long Freya was their star-crossed lover as well as a hero, and as for the Duke, he was detested even more.

There was no time for the two parties to waste, however. Without taking time to rest, they set out for the underground passageways beneath Dragonspear Castle. Jaheira's group were to find the ingredients needed to treat the dysentery outbreak. Freya's job was to poison crusader supply lines and plant explosives, though the werewolf wisely refrained from telling Arrow this. Skie was confined to laundry duty with Imoen, who was giving Khalid a wide berth. The others made quick time, avoiding the Crusaders when they were able and slaying them when they were not.

Arowan felt considerably less guilty about this since discovering that the Crusaders had intentionally seeded dysentery amongst the refugees. Unlike their innocent victims, these people were at least dying quickly, and getting past them was the only way to undo their evil work. Yet it was at her insistence that they salvaged the crusader's uniforms and the badges from their bodies. They used them to bluff their way past the entrance cave instead of fighting.

The cave was torchlit where the crusaders were working but the rest was deep in shadow. Freya instructed Arrow and Rasaad to find the group somewhere to camp, though really this was just a pretext to get them out of the way while she and Corwin poisoned the grain. They found a spot across an underground river close to a locked door, which was out of the way and reasonably defensible should their identities be suspected. They needn't have worried. The crusader quartermaster, a sensible and experienced dwarf named Ladle, had already clocked the golden Hero eyeing up his grain with a bottle in her hand. The loss of the food would be a blow but his men had neither the strength nor the numbers to prevent it. In old Ladle's mind there was no sense him and his lads being slaughtered for no good reason. He set the strangers to work hauling the grain back and forth around the cave, with a mind to dumping the lot of it as soon as they were out of sight.

Rasaad and Arrow set to work laying out the bedrolls across the lake. There was a dank mouldy smell and it was chilly down here. The ranger tugged her cloak about herself and shivered. She was a creature of the outdoors and did not do well in confined spaces.

"I too dislike being so far underground," Rasaad said. "Selune's light cannot reach such depths."

"Yes, it is quite dark," replied Arowan, eyeing the bedroll arrangement. With the combined parties this was as fraught with politics as the seating at a wedding reception. Freya's and Dorn's had to be placed as far away from each other as possible. Normally the nasally sensitive lycanthrope avoided any sort of proximity to the ponging half-orc, and more than once since they set out she had threatened to dunk him in the nearest lake.

"Indeed. Pitch black," said Rasaad. This was true. He was preparing their evening meal now mainly by feeling his way through the carrots and potatoes.

"Can't see my hand in front of my face," agreed Arrow distractedly. Viconia's bedding she'd placed with Freya's, taking special care to lay it over the bumpiest patch of rock she could find and letting the foot dip ever so slightly into the lake. Dynaheir's was laid out next to Dorn, since the Rashemen witch and her one-time failed assassin should probably also be kept apart. Then Minsc. Khalid, Jaheira, herself, Rasaad and Corwin.

Arowan baulked, that was unintended. She had wanted to sleep as far away from Dorn as was decent, and had instinctively not placed Rasaad and Viconia together. But that had accidentally put the monk right next to herself. She hastily swapped Rasaad's bedroll with Corwin's and moved hers to the other side of the Harpers'. Better. She caught the monk's eyes on her from the corner. Her deliberately moving them apart had not gone unnoticed.

"Black as tar," he said. "Which I suppose means the same thing as 'pitch black.'"

"Pitch and tar are synonyms, yes," replied Arrow stiffly. "Well, technically, pitch is refined from tar."

"That is interesting," Rasaad lied politely. "I would think it would be the other way around."

Arrow peered across the lake at the torchlit parties. For some reason the Crusaders had Freya and Dorn hauling dozens of bags of grain from one end of the cavern to the other and back again. Khalid tentatively offered to help, but they shook their heads and since the pair of them were so much stronger than he was, he didn't press the matter.

"One of the guards at Candlekeep would boil down the tar to make pitch for arrows," the ranger said vaguely. "Terrible smell."

"I can imagine," said Rasaad. "At least the air down here is relatively fresh."

The ranger sighed. She would have to help him with the food now, having run out of other things to do. A number of fist-sized spiders were scuttling behind the rocks. She toyed with popping one of those into Viconia's blankets along with the stones, but she caught the cleric's red eyes glinting at her across the lake, and decided that the retaliation would not be worth it.

Reluctantly, she sat down beside the monk and flicked out her hunting knife to chop carrots in silence. Rasaad kept glancing at her nervously but she pretended to ignore him.

"Arowan," he tried again at length, "Forgive me but I must ask-"

"No."

Rasaad was taken aback by the abruptness of her answer, but Arrow's insides were churning and she was struggling not to cry. She took a deep breath and forced herself to look at him. His dark eyes were fixed on her with an expression of confusion and hurt, but she steeled herself. She had always found talking about feelings difficult. The last time they'd spoken she had risked admitting how she felt and been badly burned in return. She wasn't about to chance it again.

"You asked and I answered," she said, battling to keep her voice even. "And then you did exactly what you always do."

"I'm sorry," Rasaad said quietly. "I handled things badly and hurt you in the process. I did not mean to."

"It's my fault," replied Arrow, her voice tinged with a bitterness and self-loathing that Rasaad had not heard in it before. "I knew you'd do this! I don't know why I thought this time would be different. I guess I don't learn."

"I understand that you are angry with me," he said, hanging his head miserably.

"I'm not," Arrow replied with a hollow laugh, tipping the chopped carrots into their pan and reaching for the parsnips. "I'm actually really not. You can't help how you were raised, it isn't your fault. And maybe some day you'll meet someone who you care for enough to overcome your issues, but that person obviously isn't me so..."

"I beg you not to give up on me!" Rasaad pleaded. Arrow groaned audibly.

"Give me one good reason why not!"

A panicked look crossed the monk's handsome face. Then before either one of them had a chance to register what was happening, he closed the gap between them and kissed her. It was clumsy and unpractised, yet Arowan felt as if her heart would pound its way out of her chest. She did not pull away, but only returned his kiss cautiously. Despite every fibre of her body wanting this man, her common-sense was far from convinced that this was a good idea.

Rasaad sensed her reticence and pulled away, searching her face anxiously. She bit her lip, where his had been moments before. Arrow hated to see others in pain, and more so to be the cause of it. Especially since she had once considered him her best friend and loved him. Yet Rasaad had caused her nothing but heartbreak and misery. In this moment she might feel as though the world would end without him, but then she remembered the months in Baldur's Gate when they had not spoken. How quickly she had recovered. How contented she had grown in his absence.

"I guess I really don't learn," she sighed, not entirely happily. But Rasaad had been crushed by their long separation, even if it was self-inflicted. Belatedly, he was coming to terms with what he really wanted, and that was not to return to the monastery and live out his days alone. He took both her hands in his own, searching desperately for the words that would persuade her to give them one last chance. For that was all that it would take.

"I swear to you, that was the last time I will falter," insisted the monk passionately. "You mean more to me than anyone else in the world Arowan, you must believe me."

"I don't," Arrow shrugged with a helpless half-smile. "I want to, but I just don't."

"Then I will prove it to you," declared the monk ardently. "You are my sun and moon. Without you there is only darkness and I would give anything to regain your love."

"You never lost my love," said Arrow, to whom actions spoke louder than words. She had limited patience when it came to flowery declarations. "Only my trust." She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing down the lump that was rising in her throat. The way he was looking at her was tearing her resolve to shreds.

"Arowan…" Rasaad said, and her heart cracked.

"I'll try this once more," she said, hesitantly. He moved forward as relief flooded through him, but she held up a hand to stop him. "Slowly. My expectations are very low at this point." She glanced across the lake. "It looks like the others are done with those sacks. Scout on ahead, make sure that door to the inner caves is still locked. I heard the crusaders mention something about sahuagin in there."

With Rasaad gone, Arrow placed her head in her hands and let out some of the tears she had been repressing during their conversation. She was not at all sure that she was doing the right thing. Though no sound escaped her (despite all that had happened to her, Arrow rarely cried. Even when she did it was in total silence) her moment of weakness did not go unnoticed.

"Why should you cry? Feeble rivvil, you got what you wanted." A hateful voice made the ranger sit up abruptly. Her tears ceased in an instant. Whatever she had been feeling moments before was replaced by deep, burning hatred.

Viconia slipped out of the shadows behind her. Shar, and her very nature as a drow, had gifted her when it came to finding the dark hiding places underground. She had spotted monk and ranger talking and it had been no effort at all to sneak up close enough to find out what they were saying. Arrow's fist tightened on her hunting knife, though the parsnip she had been chopping slipped from her fingers, forgotten.

"An unwise decision, to give your flaccid affair another chance," sneered Viconia. Arrow whipped around and was horrified to see that the drow had been eavesdropping. "Rasaad is drawn to the shadow, no matter how he fights it. You don't want to get pulled in with him."

"I thought you wanted everyone to join you in the dark, Viconia," replied Arrow, fighting the urge to strike her.

"Not everyone," the drow smirked. "Only the strong."

A surge of dark images flooded Arrow's mind. Viconia lying limply on her side with a rope about her neck. Or impaled by a spear, dangling like a piece of meat from the wall of the cave. A cold smile crept across her face as she pictured her rival peppered with so many arrows that she resembled a porcupine, or beaten to a dark bloody pulp like a mashed eggplant.

" _What? No!"_ she thought. Her eyes widened and her body jolted in horror. She scrambled to her feet, alarmed at her own reaction, and half-ran to Khalid and Jaheira. Viconia glared after her with narrowed eyes, unsure whether or not the ranger's reaction meant that she had won. Arrow did not care. The depth of her feelings toward the Sharran petrified her, and she wanted nothing more than to be as far from her as possible. Had they not needed the dysentery cure, she would have turned and fled the cave as fast as her legs would carry her. Only an evil as poisonous as Viconia's could pollute the mind of an Ilmatari with such a desire to inflict violence. The woman was pure venom.

"Servant of all Faiths my arse," Arrow muttered.


	39. Along came a Drider

Day two of the caves and already Arrow was craving daylight. Ahead of them in the dim tunnel, Corwin and Jaheira were having an argument. For some reason the Captain was determined that they must explore to the West, bringing them directly beneath Dragonspear Castle. Jaheira was insisting that they delve deeper underground in search of myconids. Neither idea appealed to the ranger. So far they had battled slippery fish-men from the lake, sickly blind cave wyrms and a colourful assortment of slimes.

Each party were halfway complete with their respective missions. Freya and Corwin had poisoned the crusader supplies. As it happened, the crusaders had noticed and promptly dumped their contaminated grain into the river, but what the officers didn't know couldn't bother them. Jaheira and Dynaheir had harvested an abundance of lime green cave moss that they had bundled tight and strapped to Dorn's back. It made it look as though he was carrying a vast shell, giving him the appearance of a very angry turtle.

"We should prioritise getting the myconid spores over spying on the Crusade," Arrow insisted. Freya and Corwin exchanged a look. The Flaming Fist hadn't the least intention of spying on Caelar, but had instead come to plant Dwarven explosives beneath her feet. As with the poison, however, they had only told Viconia and Dorn about their real plans for fear that the more ethical and less pragmatic members of the group might try to stop them.

"I can see that you're dying to return to camp and go back to playing the saintly Ilmatari," sneered Viconia, "But we do actually have a war to win and knowing the Crusade's plans…"

"The Crusade spread this plague on purpose," Arrow cut her off sharply. "So we already know one of their plans. What is the point of knowing if we don't do anything about it?"

"Arrow is right!" Corwin declared, unexpectedly switching sides. Freya and Viconia gawped at her, but she added in a low whisper as Jaheira confidently led the way downward; "Once they have their spores we can send them back to camp and get on with our mission unhindered."

This made sense, but the only way to go deeper was by sliding down ropes over a series of cliffs falling away into a deep cavern. They had just secured the first two ropes to a sturdy-looking rock and were in the process of knotting them to make climbing back up easier, when ladders clattered against the top of the cliff and Crusaders scrambled like ants from the ravine.

"Helm preserve us!" squealed a bulky paladin as he turned back to the gaping hole, sword drawn, "You haven't happened to run across a pair of drow have you?"

"Here's one, help yourself!" Arrow volunteered, gesturing to Viconia.

"No, no they're looking for a pair of kids," he muttered, but his next words were cut off.

"Hold your attacks, fall back!" a Crusader captain called down the hole. Her voice reverberated around the cavern and more of Caelar's people followed. They seemed to be in a bad way. Some of them had claw-like marks ripped through their plate armour and one woman was having difficulty climbing out of the ravine. From the way she was swaying she seemed to have been poisoned. Ignoring Viconia's contemptuous jeering, Arrow scooted down on her knees and reached out her hand to pull the woman up.

"What's going on? Oh… hells no!" Arrow yelped. She scrambled back from the edge so fast that the Crusader she was trying to save almost fell back in. Recovering herself in time, the ranger sprang forward, yanked her over the edge, then ran behind Freya and shoved her forward. If there was ever a time she was grateful not to be the hero herself, this was it.

Freya reached for a sword and looked back at Arrow bemused. The weaker Bhaalspawn was pointing at the ladders poking over the edge of the ravine that the Crusaders had just fled up, apparently lost for words. The werewolf sniffed curiously. There was definitely something down there. It smelled oddly familiar but she was having trouble placing it. Then the creature that had scared Arrow so badly poked one spindly leg over the edge of the cliff, then another and drew itself up. The Bitch of Baldur's Gate took a step backward. Even she was not keen on fighting this one.

It was like a great centaur, the top half a magnificent silver-haired mass of muscle and sinew. Instead of a horse, however, the lower half was bulbous and hairy with eight black legs holding it up. They were slender but gleamed with solid black armour and unlike the rhino beetle they had fought before, these had no visible weak points. The way its legs moved as it gained purchase on the ledge sent shivers of primal horror through the party. When it drew itself to its full height, it was twice as tall as Freya.

"Erm, Jaheira?" said Freya, who had her swords ready but was backing away, "How badly do we need these myconid spores?"

The monster started toward them but was held back and for the first time they noticed a chain about his neck. This was far from reassuring. It suggested that something even nastier was controlling him. His mad eyes flew around their sockets in a crazed fury. It seemed at once unstoppably violent and the victim of agonizing torture. As if this were not bad enough, a second half-spider pulled itself up over the ledge further down and the large shadow of a third was edging its way across the cavern ceiling.

"Viconia?" Freya yelled urgently. Having only ever smelled one drow before, she'd been unable to identify the vaguely familiar scent. Now that she saw them with their silver hair and flashing red eyes it was obvious that these had something to do with the cleric's people. "What in the nine hells is that?"

"A… a drider!" Viconia whispered. "Shar help me."

She bent over the large rock that they had tied their ropes to and vomited. When she stood up there were tears running down her face. Her companions had never seen her so shaken, though only Rasaad knew why.

"Viconia, that isn't…?" he asked, horrified.

"No… No." Viconia took a deep breath, composing herself. "My brother probably died years ago. This one is just some random victim. It doesn't matter." She seemed to be trying to convince herself of this more than anyone else and repeated more steadily, "It doesn't matter."

"I take it from your reaction that a drider is bad?" shouted Freya, who really needed a decision on whether they should run or fight. "Because there's three of them. And I'm not gonna lie; I didn't even fancy fighting just one!"

"Your brother is one of those Viconia?" Arrow asked, wrinkling her nose. "Makes sense I suppose. I can see the family resemblance."

Before Viconia could respond, more drow, normal ones this time, were hauling themselves over the edge by the drider chains and clambering up the ladders. Even with the battered crusaders at their side and their expanded party, the surfacers were badly outnumbered. An armoured woman wielding a spiky mace approached them. She was miniscule, even by drow standards, but a cruel whip was hanging from her belt and in her hand was a nasty looking double headed mace.

"Don't get any ideas," said Freya, with a sideways glance at Viconia.

"Hold your ground!" commanded the drow leader waspishly. "Rein the driders in!"

The drider handlers hauled back on the chains and their eight-legged charges scrambled backward. The drow were clearly not achieving this by physical strength alone. Yet whatever aggressive tendencies dominated the drider's crazed minds, they had been tempered by the inventive cruelty of their mistresses.

"This assault benefits neither of us!" cried the Crusader leader, with a note of desperation in her voice. "I suggest a parlay."

"I suggest you withdraw," replied the drow curtly.

"Excuse me? Excuse me? Hi," ventured Freya, with a little wave. "Is there any chance we could just pass through this mini-warzone and be on our way? We don't want to fight you, we're only here for the mushrooms."

"We didn't come here to fight!" snapped the drow impatiently, as though Freya ought to have read her mind and realised this from the start. "Wait, who is that by your side? Viconia? _Viconia DeVir?_ Can it truly be you?"

"Shapur," replied Viconia acidly. She did not look pleased to see her. "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough for my taste, apostate!" spat Shapur. "Viconia of House Devir, traitor to the Spider Queen. It sickens me to look upon you. Though the dishonour is normally reserved for males, they ought to have made you a drider like your worthless brother!"

The driders lunged forward, raking their arms at Viconia. Even from this distance they could smell the poison on their breath. With a resigned snarl, Freya replaced her swords. She tried to avoid violence in wolf-form where possible, it tended to erode her restraint. Not to mention upset people. Yet beating down these abominations was going to have to be a fur and fangs job. She was half-way to all fours when Viconia placed a restraining palm on her back.

"Freya, we do not need to fight. This is the best response we could expect from a drow raiding party. She's not about to attack me. At least not yet," Viconia paused then added, "Which means she wants something. We may as well find out what it is before you kill her."

"You honestly think your little dog can defeat my spiders?" sneered Shapur.

"Unquestionably," said Viconia defiantly.

"Really? Because I'm about fifty-fifty," growled Freya, eyeing the driders without enthusiasm. "Tell you what Shapur, I really don't fancy this. What would it take to persuade you lot to bugger off?"

"We are searching for two drow. Adolescents, a boy and a girl lost in the tunnels," replied Shapur. "Bring them back unharmed and I will spare your life."

"Done," agreed Freya at once.

"Hang on!" objected Corwin. "We're wasting even more time! Since when did we go around running errands for the drow?"

"Do you want to take on those eight-legged fuckers all by yourself, Sir?" demanded Freya, "Because I'd much rather go hunting for little lost kiddies. But if you're worried about wasting time… Shapur! Any chance this lot could go hunt for myconid spores while we're looking? Preferably without being eaten by giant spiders?"

"You want to 'hunt' for myconids?" Shapur asked, amused. "Try avoiding them. They infest everything. You can come round to my house if you wish. Scrape the cursed things from my bathroom ceiling."

"Would you be bathing in there while I work?" asked Freya, turning back with mild interest. Both Corwin and Viconia responded by cuffing her about the back of the head. They led the way out of the cave, and Dorn followed. The half-orc was disappointed not to test his mettle against a real drider but at least searching for the runaways offered the possibility of some action.

" _Besides,"_ he thought to himself with a secret grin, _"There will be ample opportunity to battle driders once the cull begins."_

Arrow, Dynaheir, Khalid and Jaheira remained behind to gather spores. Minsc and Rasaad went with them. They had to descend deeper into the darkness to do this, which put them in the unnerving position of having the driders between themselves and the exit. Malevolent red eyes blinked down at them from above as they worked. Khalid stuttered nervously that he very much hoped the missing youngsters were found safe. They all did, as much for their own safety as for the lost drow.

Myconid spores, as it transpired, were not difficult to harvest. The semi-sentient shrooms released them as a defensive mechanism, so all one needed to do was place an empty flask beneath their gills, give them a solid thump with your fist, then hold your breath until the bottle was full. If done carefully, bopping only the smallest mushrooms, it was possible to avoid waking their more dangerous elders.

Khalid was a little too hesitant when it came to bashing the shrooms and ended up with only a few glowing spores per flask. Rasaad, by contrast, was too heavy handed and was rapidly enveloped by glittering blue and purple clouds that paralysed him for several minutes. Arrow, who had already filled five flasks of her own, left the witch and druid to it and tried to manoeuvre him into a more comfortable position.

"Better?" she asked, not wholly untenderly. She slipped her fingers around his arm and placed it over his chest to keep as much of him as possible clear of the rocks.

"Yes. Thank you," Rasaad said. He swallowed, with difficulty for everything from the neck down was immobile. Well, not quite everything. His body responded even to the most chaste touch, and up until now he would have tried to fight it down by thinking of boring things like papers and chopping carrots. But Rasaad was growing weary of fighting a constant war with his own body. "Stay with me a moment?"

Arrow perched beside the prone monk awkwardly. She had agreed to give him another chance but seemed a long way from forgetting their argument. Though she was a hand's reach away, it was as though the shade of Gamaz sat between them. He wanted to make her understand why he found it so hard to let go of his self-control but it was hard to explain. Freya understood perfectly, she'd had a similar upbringing and from the sounds of things had issues of her own. He toyed with asking the werewolf to talk to Arrow, unaware that she already had, but decided it was the coward's way out. It would be better coming from himself.

"Life has been very different for you," he told her.

"Yes. I'd agree with that statement," said Arrow dryly. He had been orphaned, homeless then adopted by monks. She'd had her soul shaved and been imprisoned in a library, in an atmosphere of benign neglect. Rasaad's early life had undoubtedly been more dramatic, but hers had been more consistently miserable. "What specific aspect did you have in mind?"

"Chaos has not been a part of your history," he said. Arrow raised a brown eyebrow. She parted her lips to say something, but his statement was so ridiculous that she decided not to bother. Rasaad seemed to realise that describing her as unfamiliar with chaos was comically inaccurate because he added hastily, "I said your history. Not your life. You had a home, a place where you belonged, even if it was only for a while. You grew up in the care of someone who loved you."

Arrow did not know whether to laugh or wince at this misreading of her past. Many of the occupants of Candlekeep had intentionally chosen a life of isolation and resented the presence of children in their library. She had always felt how unwelcome she was most acutely and had taken every possible opportunity to get away, scaling the walls and roaming the woods outside. Sometimes, when the weather was clement and she'd managed to snare or gather enough food to avoid going home for dinner, she had considered not returning at all. Were it not for Sarevok, she mused, that was almost certainly what she would have ended up doing. She had never 'belonged' in Candlekeep.

"You know," she began, not wishing to put it in a way that sounded too whiney, "Gorion was a very dutiful guardian when he wasn't ripping pieces out of our souls. He gave me shelter, good food, an education and I'm not ungrateful, but to say he 'loved me' is probably a bit of a stretch."

This was a colossal understatement. Gorion adopted (or abducted depending on your point of view) twelve Bhaalspawn, of whom Arrow was his least favourite. She had been a taciturn, uncharismatic child without the laid-back likeability of Afoxe, the dopey vulnerability of Freya or Draxle's sparkly, appealing enthusiasm. He'd had a dozen children to divide his attention between. Thirteen if you counted Imoen, though Gorion never did. Some of them were bound to get more of his attention than others and Arowan was near enough ignored.

"Don't feel bad about it," she shrugged at Rasaad. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that I loved him either. When he died mostly what I felt was guilt that I didn't feel as sad as I was supposed to. I'm not saying I understand what it was like to go through the things you did as a child. You're right, my upbringing was anything but chaotic. It's just that you seem to have this mental image of my idyllic childhood playing by the fireside with Imoen and my doting father and it really wasn't like that. I was safe in Candlekeep and well fed but I was also very much alone."

"After my father died, Gamaz and I were utterly on our own," he replied. Arrow gave him a pitying smile, knowing that he could not see the glaring irony in that statement. "Our lives were wild, dangerous things full of scratching and striving. We breathed chaos. We slept with it at our backs."

"Adapting to life as a monk must have felt very strange after that," said Arrow. "From absolute chaos to absolute order. I imagine the two could not be more different."

"No!" exclaimed Rasaad, becoming suddenly impassioned. The effects of the spores were wearing off and he was able to sit shakily opposite her. "Things are not different. Chaos still swirls around me. It eats at me. Only through meditation and my faith can I control it."

Arrow bit her lip and nodded, not wanting to reply. She felt as though whatever answer she gave to Rasaad it was always the wrong one. She was thinking about Gorion. Rasaad assumed that her adopted father had loved her. From what Freya described he hadloved _her_ , which meant that he was capable of it. Which meant that she, Arowan, must be the problem.

Anxiety swelled up inside her like a soap bubble. This was familiar, she used to feel like this all the time. These days she didn't, though the feeling had faded so slowly that she hadn't noticed it go. Her eyes landed on the Harpers and she felt a sudden rush of affection for her adopted parents. Jaheira was standing over Khalid demanding that he smack the mushroom harder. He was screwing his eyes shut and giving its umbrella a reluctant little prod, sending a limp scattering of golden spores into the bottom of his flask.

"You," Rasaad continued in a pained whisper, "You break all of that control to pieces just by being near me. So many feelings at once make me uncomfortable."

"I can imagine," replied Arrow, wishing more than anything that she could take his pain away. Yet she had her own scars, and not just the three clawed slash mark that Viconia had torn into her face.

For a long time that fear of being disliked, which Candlekeep had instilled in her, had been a self-fulfilling prophecy. The more she avoided social situations the less practise she got and the less likeable she'd become. It was a strange and lucky combination of circumstances that had enabled her to clamber out of that pit of panic and self-loathing. Sometimes it seemed as though Rasaad was hell-bent on pushing her right back in again. "I may be an Ilmatari, Rasaad, but I am not a Painbearer. You cannot hurt me over and over and expect me to stay and take it like a straw dummy. It isn't fair."

"That is how you see us?" Rasaad asked, stricken. Once again, Arrow felt herself melting under his intense gaze. She wanted to reassure him and take it back but she didn't think that would do any good in the end.

"Rasaad," she replied rather formally, "Before what happened with Gamaz you were acting…" she paused and corrected herself, "At least _I_ thought you were acting… like you wanted to be with me. Was I wrong about that?"

"No. You were not wrong," he replied, thinking regretfully of how much simpler everything had seemed then and how it might have been better for everyone if they had never located the Dark Moon cult.

"You chose to end it in between me having my head shaved so that I looked ugly even for me, and having to go back to Candlekeep which," she took a shivering breath. "Which was not easy for me Rasaad. I didn't like it there despite what you seem to think. I tried to get shot of you after that but you just wouldn't go!"

"Forgive me," the monk replied miserably. "I should have. I knew it, but I kept finding excuses not to. I could not bear to leave you knowing that it would be forever."

"You kissed me then told me to burn in hell," she went on, finding her voice tightening with anger as she spoke. There was something else about that which she needed to get off her chest while they were on the subject. "That was my first kiss, Rasaad, by the way. I'd like to say it was a fond memory, but it wasn't."

Rasaad's eyes widened and he looked as though she had stabbed him through the heart. Arrow was at a loss as to how he imagined she might feel any other way about it. Once more she felt crushed by guilt, and yet… There was a corner of her heart. A petty, vindictive little corner. A corner that Arrow did not like very much, but was nevertheless part of her, that felt a glow of triumph watching his reaction. He'd spent the best part of a year toying with her heart like a cat playing with a wounded bird. It didn't feel completely terrible to claw some of that power back. _Now you know how I feel!_

"I am sorry," he croaked. "I did not think of it like that. I cannot undo the past, but I promise that I will never do it again."

And at last she believed him. She held out her arms to him, and Rasaad was so overcome with relief that she thought he'd crush a rib from hugging her so hard. Arrow wrapped one arm around his lower back and with her other hand she stroked the back of his head. He buried his face into her hair.

"Don't reward these cretins!" a voice bearing arrogance to rival Viconia and Jaheira combined echoed down from above. "We could have been killed in the time it took this slobbering mutt to slay that monster."

"What a delightful child," Corwin's acid voice floated down after. "So glad that we could return her to you. Now by every god in the pantheon, can we _please_ get back to what we were supposed to be doing?"

"Canst thou walk?" Dynaheir demanded of Rasaad, as she strode past them and tested the nearest ladder. "Good, then thou can also climb. We have obtained the requisite ingredients to cure this unnatural dysentery. It is time we made our exit."

As they ascended, they were treated to the unnerving experience of driders scuttling down quite close to them. One of them passed directly over Khalid, stepping around him on its many legs. The belly of its wide carapace rubbed over his armour and the half-elf pressed his body into the wall with a low moan. On the ledge, Shapur was still turning her nose up at Viconia, but apparently the runaway was a noble daughter of some import. The drow captain seemed sufficiently relieved to have her back to spare the surfacers on this occasion.

"Now begone, before I change my mind and take the golden one for a slave!" Shapur snapped.

"Pardon me but what sort of slave?" Freya ventured. "I mean are we talking mining? Cooking? I've heard the drow go in for tying people up and torturing them. Or pleasure slaves?" Shapur raised a silver eyebrow. "I'm just saying if you have a vacancy for the last two I would like to make an application. I come with excellent references, just ask Viconia."

"As long as you don't need her to perform any service that requires a functioning brain," Viconia rolled her eyes.

Shapur took a step forward, knife in hand. The driders clicked their pincers and advanced menacingly. Rasaad stepped protectively in front of Arrow as the Harpers exchanged anxious looks. Then Shapur's face contorted. A shrill noise like a boiling kettle whistled from her nose. Her eyes screwed shut and she clutched at her ribs.

_Squeak, squeak, squeak!_

Jaheira's party had experienced Viconia's cruel chuckles and mirthless mockery but this was their first brush with authentic drow laughter. Their eyes widened in astonishment as Shapur and her fellow drow, adults and adolescents alike, dissolved into guineapig-like screeching. Only Viconia was not laughing, looking instead mildly irritated, as her kinsmen's squeaking reverberated about the cavern. Even the driders joined in endearing little noises, though it was unclear whether they had understood or if they were just laughing with the group.

"Thou art adorable!" Dynaheir told Viconia as the annoyed exile led their way out of the cave.

"Who would have imagined that the wily drow laugh like little Boo?" Minsc beamed. Viconia hushed him hastily. There was a reason that few surfacers knew her race's shameful secret. Humans who described the drow as cute or mocked their laughter (which included almost everyone who had ever heard it) tended to end up dead. Shapur's laughter rang after them up the tunnel.

"A slave with references! _Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!"_


	40. Belhifet

Viconia was feeling threatened, and not only by the Crusaders. Her eyes kept drifting to Dorn, who was scowling at the world from beneath his lank locks. The party had not told their honourable monk that they were planting explosives beneath Dragonspear. Instead Freya temporarily swapped Rasaad for Dorn Il-Khan. It was not a trade that the cleric welcomed, though the moon male had needed no convincing to trail along limply after Arowan. The huge, demon-powered half-orc would have been a welcome asset were it not for the fact that his patron had tasked him with destroying the Servant of all Faiths. The only thing standing between her and his blade was the fact that he did not know.

Well, that and Freya, but the werewolf was in an increasingly unpredictable mood. The closer they got to the castle the more changes she was noticing in her ally. Little things, that would escape a casual observer but not someone whose life depended on the Hero's protection. For one thing Freya had switched fighting styles. She was using Sarevok's two-handed sword in preference to her twin bastards and (this was the odd part) wielding it just as effectively. When Viconia or Corwin spoke Freya's name they had to say it twice before she turned around. It was almost as if she had forgotten that the name applied to her.

"Bhaal?" Viconia whispered experimentally. This time Freya looked around instantly. So did Corwin with a suspicious scowl. "Balls!" Viconia pretended to curse. "I stubbed my toe in the dark."

A crude deception but effective. Both women accepted that 'balls' is what she had been saying all along because they turned back up the tunnel. Behind them lay the bodies of the Crusaders guarding the way into Dragonspear. Chunky stone slabs led the way into the castle crypts. They would need to be quick. If a patrol happened upon the scene, the Crusade would be up in arms like a hornet's nest. The four of them donned the helmets of the fallen guards. Freya, especially, would need to be concealed if this was to work, but Corwin was also at risk of being recognized. Dorn and Viconia, as a half-orc and a drow, attracted attention simply by existing, so everyone needed their faces covered up.

At the top of the stairs they came to a great dug-out pit. It seemed to be a new addition to the castle. Hastily erected wooden scaffolding was holding the roof up. A series of interconnected ledges worming up toward the surface were linked by rickety steps that had clearly been put up in a hurry. It was a training room and armoury, and it would not take very much to bring it crashing down.

"Jackpot!" Freya whispered to Corwin. Her fellow officer smiled and nodded. The only problem was that it was also packed with Crusaders, which was going to make placing the explosives difficult. They were everywhere, like bees in a hive. There were archers practising on a huge target range, twenty bullseyes in a row. Knights were fencing nearby and pike men practising manoeuvres by orders of a commander who could have been Bence's clone. There were peasants too. Whether they were captives or supporters of the Crusade was not clear. They were hard at work preparing food, mending and washing, retrieving arrows for the bowmen.

Some ogres were locked in cages. Ignoring Dorn's grunt of impatience and Corwin's angry whisper that they had no time for this, Freya sidled over to one of them. Their stench was intense, more so even than Dorn, and her eyes watered from having to get so close.

"Hey buddy," she muttered to the largest, stupidest looking one who she took as a given was their leader.

"Slug not your buddy."

"Slug might be in a minute," Freya grinned. "I'm going to let you and your mates out, alright?"

"Why Crusader let Slug out?" the ogre replied dopily. Viconia rolled her eyes. She turned to the party wizards to remark on what an inspiring meeting of intellect this was. Yet when she turned there was nobody but Dorn glaring back at her. Then she remembered that Baeloth was gone and Edwin was dead. She suddenly felt acutely alone. Alone and vulnerable.

"I'm not a real Crusader," Freya whispered to Slug conspiratorially. "I let you out, you fight your way to the exit. Maybe you make it, maybe you don't, but it'll distract them long enough for us to blow their Shining Arses to the astral planes. Deal?"

"You say you not Crusader," said Slug slowly, "But you wear Crusader uniform."

"I stole Crusader uniform from dead Crusader," Freya said. She had patience with their slowness, being a little slow herself as humans went, but this was a bit much even for her. "Look, do you want out or not? Good!" She cleared her throat and raised her voice. "Congratulations Slug and friends! Caelar herself has found you worthy to join her cause as free men! Wait, _are_ you a man Slug? Free men or women… Free ogres of indeterminate gender… whatever! You're free, Caelar said so. Three cheers for our new comrades: Hip, hip!"

And she actually got a 'hooray'. The power of an artificially inflated charisma never ceased to impress, fascinate and horrify Corwin in equal measure. Freya strode to the cage doors and lifted them away one by one to the rapturous applause of the watching Crusaders. This was not a difficult task, for though the cages were latched, the hinges were not secured, which made it possible for a strong creature to simply pick the doors up and toss them aside. Had Slug been a little smarter he could have done it himself. Unfortunately, as the party were coming to realise, Slug was phenomenally stupid.

"Slug no serve Crusade! You trick Slug! Die now!"

Freya swore and rolled out of the way. Despite this, her plan still worked, since a dozen of Caelar's zealots eagerly sprang forward to take her place. Slug lifted one by his shins and swung him like a tin-plated club against his own allies. In the confusion that followed, they were able to pile the explosives beneath one of the larger downward ramps, and lay a discrete fuse along the cave wall.

All that remained was to light it, but they had to be sure that they could reach the exit. One of Slug's allies had fallen under a rain of Crusader arrows, but Slug himself and two of his fellow ogres had made it out of the door. A horde of Crusaders followed, clamouring angrily. No doubt they would blame him for the dead bodies outside too. Even better.

"Greetings Crusader," a passing archer saluted them.

"May the Shining Lady… shine on you," Freya replied as they passed. The Crusader placed her fist over her heart in a half-bow and moved on. Viconia sighed enviously. The Hero's vast charisma enabled her to get away with almost anything. If she had that and her strength she would be running half the Sword Coast by now. Freya tapped her in the ribs. "Check it out."

Two ogres were hauling on a chain, and groaning with effort. It pulled up a makeshift platform and they were hauling supplies up to the next level. The party followed it with their eyes. As it ascended the shaft, cave rock gave way to stonework leading to the original Dragonspear basement. There was something off about the hole. The bricks around it looked as though they had been melted at some point like lava or dried slops of yoghurt. Beneath the ogre's feet was a metal grate which had been placed to cover up a second hole directly below the first. Something had melted or burrowed through the base of the castle, dropped to the cavern floor and kept going.

"Do you suppose that was a dragon's work?" whispered Viconia.

"No, a demon," said Freya, staring at the top of the hole. She was feeling weird again, like she had in the temple of Cyric and on Boareskyr Bridge. The werewolf shook her head, trying to shake it but a deep, primal impulse was compelling her to explore what was above that hole. She started toward the ogres with a friendly wave.

"What are you doing?" hissed Corwin. "We've planted the explosives, now let's blow this place and run! It'll cut Caelar off from her armoury and half her people!"

"We have to go up there," said Freya firmly. "The portal Caelar is trying to open is in a crypt right above our heads! If we can collapse it in rubble it will take them months to dig it out again. We can stop her from opening it!"

"How could you possibly know that?" Corwin demanded. Freya turned back to her, broadsword in hand and grey eyes glinting strangely.

"Because I've been here before," she said.

…

**1356\. Dragonspear Castle.**

" _Maire, get out of here!" Silvershield pleaded desperately._

" _Let her fight if she wants to fight. What's the worst that could happen?" Bhaal asked grimly. Silvershield looked up sharply, though his blood started to pump with nerves. The worst that could happen was that Maire might be killed, a demon seize her soul at the moment of death, and drag her into eternal torment in whatever hell these beasts were spawning from. That may be trifling to the Lord of Murder, but Maire meant everything to the Duke._

_It was the first time the god had addressed him directly, or even spoken at all. They had beaten the shrieking, clawing demons all the way back to their portal into this world. He could not have done it without the death-god, no denying that. Yet he was almost as concerned about having Bhaal in their midst as he was about the devils themselves. Almost._

_A scarlet winged creature, like a giant bat, swooped over their heads. It had cruel, gleaming claws and savage fangs but its most worrisome feature was a dangling tail bearing poisoned barbs. With a piercing screech it streaked toward Maire, but Bhaal's sword clipped its tail as it passed. Where the barbed end landed, it began to melt the stone floor below, leaving a sizzling black hole wide enough to fit a cart through. Bhaal peered in after it curiously. It was already out of sight before the acrid fumes from the hole stung his mortal eyes and he had to look away._

" _Fucking demons," he muttered. He straightened up and looked about idly for the rest of the monster, which was hurtling toward Maire._

_The bard screwed her eyes shut and continued to play as the creature bore down on her, but a bolt from Silvershield's crossbow impaled it and drove it into the wall. It thrashed and gripped the bolt in its talons, trying to pull it out. The god snatched Silvershield's buckler from his arm and hurled it like a discus. It whistled across the crypt and landed neatly in the demon's throat, severing its head. Greenish-blue blood leaked from the neck, making the shield bubble and froth._

" _See?" grinned Bhaal, spinning his vast blade one handed as though it were made of cotton. "Nothing to worry about!"_

" _Something's coming!" bellowed Silvershield._

_The portal glowed white-blue, so powerful that even with their eyes closed it dazzled them. The world swam back into focus. Maire and the Duke quickly wished it hadn't, though Bhaal's eyes lit up and a huge grin spread across his handsome face as five demon lords crossed into their domain. They were led by a scarlet-hoofed monstrosity holding meat cleavers that were each bigger than Maire's entire body. The effect was spoiled a little by his needing to stoop to enter the castle but the Duke still turned pale. Behind him came a beautiful barely dressed succubus queen, a twisting featureless mass like an oil slick, an eight-legged peacock and a patchwork humanoid with eyes where no eyes should be._

_Each believing themselves to be the most important, all five demon lords introduced themselves at once, talking over each other. Amongst the garble, Freya picked out a name she recognized. Ur-Gothoz._

" _Now we're talking!" Bhaal exclaimed with a bark of mad laughter._

_The Lord of Murder made a good-looking mortal and the succubus was eyeing him in an almost-regretful way. His grey eyes were bright and eager, strength radiated from him. If he was at all frightened by this demonic council his handsome face betrayed none of it. Ignoring Maire and her petrified fiancé, they charged Bhaal and the pair lost sight of him beneath wings and tails._

" _Maire please get out of here!" cried Silvershield, clutching his sword bravely._

" _You should both get out of here, mortals," Bhaal called out from somewhere buried inside the scrum. "Leave these murders to the expert!"_

_Yet Duke Silvershield was a man of honour and could not bring himself to abandon an ally. Not even when that ally was Bhaal._

…

**Present Day.**

Freya looked up at the hole the demon tail had burned, then wistfully at the sword in her own hand. It was Bhaal's same weapon. She ran her thumb over the grooves in the hilt. Bloody Sarevok must have gotten a hold of it somehow. She wondered whether her hated brother had also had flashes of these memories. Perhaps they had led him to the temple and to the sword. Or perhaps Madele and her followers had found him before the Cyricists took over and given it to him to slay his fellow Bhaalspawn with.

"I'm not sure going up there is such a good idea," said Corwin, watching Freya with concern, but it was too late.

"What? Who there?" called one of the ogres. They were great, lumbering hulks with bodies that resembled a child's clay model of a person. Unlike a child's model they were each eight-foot-tall and wore ragged loin cloths the size of bath towels. They must have had a lot to hide under them because their legs splayed unnaturally wide. Across their backs were criss-crossed scars from numerous whippings and this one sported a black eye.

"Einer! Manners!" scolded the other, cuffing him about the back of the head with his meaty fist. "You want more beating?"

"Hello Ma'am," The first ogre corrected himself with studied politeness. "What we do for you this fine day?"

"You don't want more beating?" Freya asked pleasantly. "I'll be happy not to beat you provided you take us up on that platform of yours." The ogres looked at her with small dull eyes. Einer lifted a finger to his grubby nose and picked it thoughtfully.

"You no smell like Crusader," he scowled suspiciously.

"You want to get into what people smell like? You really want to open that can of worms?" Freya growled, letting her muzzle transform part of the way. Einer took a nervous step backward. "Because _you_ smell like a skunk sprayed on a barrel of apples that's been pissed on, then left out in the rain until the cores burst with maggots. You smell like a castle moat after a week of winter vomiting bug! You stink like a rat that crawled up a cow's digestive tract and died of leprosy! You smell like… like… quite a lot like Dorn here actually."

"Watch it werewolf," growled Dorn.

"Werewolf, you say?" Einer and his friend exchanged doubtful looks. They were not the most articulate of species but they were not entirely stupid. The pair came to a decision. Einer swallowed the greasy pickings from his large nostril and nodded helpfully. "Hop on Ma'am," he smiled brightly. "We get you where you're going!"

The four of them hopped onto the platform and the two ogres hoisted them upward with barely a grunt of effort. They reached the top and found themselves in a long alcove branching from the main basement. As they stepped off the platform, the ogres let it fall back down with a crash. It was darker in here, though a distant torch flickered further down a corridor leading off. Their eyes adjusted to the gloom. This was definitely Dragonspear. These were the stone slabs of a castle wall, not unlike those of Candlekeep, though the rock was a warmer colour. Adorning them were the half-sun banners of Caelar Argent.

Opposite them were eerie great doors decorated with writhing serpents. Freya remembered that these led to the portal. The others, of course, did not know this but those doors still gave them the creeps. Corwin was looking about her and growing anxious. They were in the belly of the beast now and any minute might find themselves overwhelmed by Crusaders. Dorn peered around for enemies, his hand locked on Rancor, while Viconia discretely chanted defensive spells.

Freya looked up at the wall behind her, half hoping that the thing she was expecting to see would not be there. Then she could pretend to herself that the memories of being Bhaal were her imagination. But no, there it was. Hanging like a hunting trophy, welded into the wall by an ancient half-melted shield. The skeletal remains of the scarlet winged demon that her father had slain, the old Duke's crossbow bolt still buried into the mortar.

They were distracted by a silky voice floating from down the corridor. As they crept closer and peered around a doorway they saw Caelar's cleric from the blown-up bridge. He was lying prostrate before a dark altar, surrounded by billowing mist. Poisonous-looking orange candles were mounted about it and lying in the middle of them was a paladin. His eyes had rolled back into his head which was sliced with runes. A deep chunk had been gouged from his neck and from it blood was seeping down the altar and pooling onto the floor.

"…just need a little more patience master!" Hephernaan wheedled. His long pale hair spilled like an oil slick, dipping into the sacrificial blood.

Incense hung heavy in the air. The fug it created was unpleasant even for the normal noses in the party. Freya, with her canine sense of smell, felt vaguely nauseous. There was another odour in the room too. A thick stench of rotting meat leeching from the altar, that the incense did not quite manage to mask. A voice like cracking slate followed it, out of the mouth of the dead paladin.

" _More_ patience Hephernaan? I have waited decades for my chance, and will wait longer still before I am free to return to the prime," the voice replied in a low, threatening sneer.

"And when you do, all will have been made ready for your arrival!" Hephernaan promised eagerly. "My acolytes have seeded the plague in Baldur's Gate. Once the war ends and trade resumes it will spread by boat and caravan throughout these lands. A million souls will hold their arms up and scream your name, ready to embrace their new lord and master!"

"Your words paint a pretty picture Hephernaan, but your failures tell a different story," the voice replied dubiously.

"The plague will not fail Belhifet!" Hephernaan insisted. "But I beg of you to have patience this time. Show restraint, advance slowly. Let the dysentery run ahead of us wiping out those of good alignment in every city and by the time you come to take them there will be no heroes left with the will to oppose you!"

"Assuming it cannot be cured?"

"Of course, it can be cured," Hephernaan replied with a cruel chuckle. "But the human leaders of this generation have grown soft, petty and weak. This Duke Silvershield is not his ancestor. He hasn't the wit to give up what resources need to be spent to nip my plague in the bud. By the time he realises it will be too late. The dysentery will spread faster than his clerics can brew treatments."

"None of which does me any good if I cannot reach the material plane."

When the voice spoke the candles on the altar shivered. Only the lips of the corpse moved, the rest was entirely still. The flow of fresh blood was slowing to a trickle. Hephernaan rose to his feet and punctured the body in the side and leg to speed up the flow and keep the spell going longer. Then he quickly returned to his subservient position on the floor.

"The daughters of Bhaal are near master," he assured the temperamental demon. "Soon the weaker of the pair will be ours. The portal to Avernus shall be opened once again."

"And what of the other one? The Bitch of Baldur's Gate?" demanded Belhifet. "From what you describe of her actions _she_ is not of good alignment and will not succumb to your dysentery. What do you propose to do about her?"

"Yeah beautiful," grinned Freya, stepping out of the shadows. "What do you propose to do about me?"

"Who trespasses here? What is happening?" Belhifet cried, and he took control of the paladin's eyes. They swivelled around, cold and dead to stare straight at Freya. "She is here! Quick! Take her blood, open the portal and…" the dead eyes roved over her companions. Then he said softly, "and look who she brought with her."

Viconia shuddered. The eyes were right on her. Slowly, mechanically and without moving a single other muscle in his face, the corpse grinned. Instinctively she took a step backward and closed her eyes, appealing primarily to Shar, but also any other deity who wished her survival and might be listening in.

"Leave her companions alive if you can," Belhifet commanded suddenly. "Should I fail to return, I would yet see the prophecy surrounding the Servant of all Faiths come to fruition."

"It will not!" grunted Dorn. He assumed that the demon was talking about him and meant to keep him alive for interrogation. "I will slay your weakling servant. Know that it was I, Dorn Il-Khan, servant of Ur-Gothoz, who cast him into the eternal pit!"

"So, it is Ur-Gothoz who works against me?" came the ethereal voice. "He has aligned himself with our old enemy? Curious. I wondered who interfered with my foot soldiers in the prime. He will be dealt with in short order, as will you Blackguard!"

"It needn't be so," growled Dorn. "There are plenty of Bhaalspawn to go around. You could always content yourself with this one… though I must confess I prefer it this way. As for our 'old enemy' Ur-Gothoz will see him fall."


	41. Memory

Hephernaan's dysentery had already struck the party of good alignment. It had started on the way back to camp with Minsc complaining of feeling queasy. Then Khalid's stride dipped slower and slower until in the end he doubled over, pleading apologetically that he needed to stop. This was shortly followed by Dynaheir rushing for the trees. Rasaad had not been near the sick part of the camp and Arrow had the natural constitution of an ox. They were thus-far unaffected so it fell to them to help Jaheira grind the cave moss and keep a steady stir on the myconid spores as they came to boil.

Whether it was due to the spores themselves or some other ingredient from the druid's sundry herbs, Arrow was forced to turn her face from the fumes. The potion had an acrid smell, like vinegar but more powerful. Her eyes watered and the treetops turned into a splodged green blur. Even her throat felt raw and itchy where the vapours burned, but after a while Jaheira dropped in a fistful of chalky white powder. It sank to the bottom of the pot with a sinister hiss, but once Arrow had stirred it in the burning steam ceased.

"This is no natural sickness," Jaheira was muttering repeatedly. She kept glancing fretfully at Khalid. Though Minsc was moaning like a buffalo and making by far the biggest fuss, it was clear to any healer that Khalid was worse affected. He had turned bluish-pale beneath his ginger hair and Arrow felt a surge of guilt for involving him in tending the sufferers back in camp. "You are not to blame for that," Jaheira said stiffly. Her brow was knotted with concentration while she chopped herbs from her backpack into the brew. "It was I who first set him to task, but you know if I hadn't he would have volunteered himself. Are you feeling any symptoms yourself?"

"I'm not sure," Arrow said truthfully. Her stomach certainly felt tight and crampy but that might just be fear. She was afraid, both for her father and of catching the disease herself. In the Chapel of Ilmater she had given some thought as to what she would do if she did contract it. Now her thoughts were straying that way again. Healing potions did nothing and the chapel's herbal remedies had provided the dying with scant comfort. Like most people the ranger was afraid of death, but she was absolutely petrified by the _process_ of dying.

Death in battle was different. For denizens of the Sword Coast it tended to be relatively quick. Most fatal wounds would render a victim unconscious before they felt the worst of it, and the types of creatures they faced were not known for leaving survivors. Even if you were unlucky enough to be abandoned wounded by brigands in the wood, some large predator was usually on hand to finish the job. Death-by-dysentery, by contrast, could take days or even weeks of unrelenting agony. Yet Arrow knew she had an opt-out.

Nestled deep in her packs were Gamaz's Numbing Potions. They had lost none of their vile potency with age. Sometimes as she walked she could feel their coldness even through her pack and clothes. A quick dose of these and it would not matter if she was in pain, because she would no longer care. Neither would she feel a fear of dying, nor anything else.

Yet they were incredibly dangerous. Not only were they addictive, her brother Eric had died just from withdrawal, but they sapped all empathy from the drinker. A Numbing Potion addict had no new drives or new feelings to change their goals. They would pursue, zombie-like, the last things that were important to them before they entered that state. Like a ball thrown out into space with nothing to alter its course or slow it down. For Gamaz this had meant becoming stronger than his brother Rasaad. For Eric it had meant avoiding the afterlife no matter what. Arrow would never take them under normal circumstances, but if she was going to die anyway…

As it transpired Jaheira's cure worked and there was no need to face this ethical dilemma. Nevertheless, she felt awful for even entertaining the idea. She did not dare confess her thoughts to Rasaad. Gamaz had lost not only his life to Numbing Potions but also his faith and alignment. Arrow could not even imagine how the monk would react if she told him she had contemplated using them herself. So instead she went to Khalid. The colour had returned to his face, though he was still resting off the effects of his brief illness.

"Who knew I was such a coward?" she asked Khalid with a weak smile, once she'd explained her thinking. She plucked a grass-stalk from the roadside and chewed on it glumly, as she had sometimes seen the guards do in Candlekeep. There must be a knack to it because the dry stalk cracked and tried to lodge itself in her teeth. Instead of dangling from her mouth in a rustic way, the seed-head flailed wildly with each chew. Hull had made it look so easy.

"I don't think you would really have d- done it," Khalid croaked, shaking his head. "We all have strange and irrational thoughts when c- confronted with our demise. It was when J- Jaheira was on d- d- death's door that she decided being with m- me was a good idea!"

Khalid swept Arowan's hair from her cheek in a fatherly way and smiled fondly. Arrow nodded, reassured. She _probably_ wouldn't really have done it and, with the cure working so effectively, there was no need anyway. Khalid squinted at Arrow's cheek and the three line scar Viconia had given her. She raised her hand to it, feeling the bumps with her fingertips.

"I was thinking about tattooing over it," she said, chewing the stalk thoughtfully. "But I think I'll just leave it as it is. Then I can pretend I got it fighting something cool, like a vampire, not in a petty cat-fight with Viconia."

"You attained that wound battling a mighty drow!" Minsc said bracingly, coming up behind her. He clapped his broad hands on the shoulders of father and daughter so that they had to catch themselves to avoid being pitched forward. "How many warriors cam claim to have survived melee with the evil dark elves? Not only that, we have also endured the taste of Jaheira's potions, and come out alive. Even Boo, though I had to hide his dose in a piece of cheese."

"What hast I told thou about feeding thine rodent cheese?" Dynaheir scolded loudly. "It will stick in his cheek pouches and rot! Besides, we know not whether this plague affects animals."

Arrow chewed on her stalk. It seemed most unlikely that animals were susceptible. Ilmater knew how many rats there had been in his Chapel and they _certainly_ weren't sick. Sprightly, healthy specimens impossible to drive away or catch. And none of the camp horses had become ill. Warhorses were sizable animals. If one of them had caught dysentery, people would have noticed.

In fact, since animals do not know right from wrong, they are not strictly capable of having an alignment and were as immune to Hephernaan's filthy plague as the cleric himself. Whether Freya and her party would return alive to tell the others that, however, was currently in some doubt. Taking Dorn's threat at face-value, the slippery eel had teleported away. As the party fled the altar the sacrificed paladin stopped moving and an avalanche of Crusaders charged down the stairs.

Most of the spells and arrows were directed at Freya, which was just as well since the Hero could absorb them. It seemed that they would make it to the hole they came in by. As long as they could reach it before the crush of bodies became overpowering. Then a stray stunning spell flew past Freya's head and hit Viconia. They became separated and fighting their way back to her was like wading through treacle. More fighters were pushing down the stairs and it was growing harder for anybody, party or crusader, to get a decent blow in.

"We're going to be swamped!" Corwin bellowed.

"We are not leaving Viconia!" Freya hollered back. "Don't force me to disobey a direct order, Sir!"

Corwin, Freya and Dorn formed a triangle with their backs to the frozen cleric. The sheer number of opponents in such a confined area was starting to work in their favour. A whole army were camped above their heads and they were alert to the intruders. The new fighters coming up behind were inadvertently pushing their comrades onto their enemies' swords, until Freya had three skewered men on Sarevok's blade like a grisly kebab. Rancor swung in a great arc, critically wounding a pair of Crusader swordsmen. It was impressive but ultimately as effective as a fly swatter against a riled-up wasp nest. Freya extracted her sword with difficulty, looking about for Hephernaan, but he was nowhere in sight.

The noise of so many screams and battle cries were deafening. As more Crusaders fell, the blood about their feet was making the stone floor increasingly slippery and treacherous. They scrambled about as an arrow whistled past Corwin's face. The head scraped her cheek, adding a new scar to her already heavy collection and scattering Viconia's face with blood. The cleric's eyes darted around in their sockets panicking, but other than that she could not move. Corwin could do nothing more than push her attackers back with her shield. There was no way to fire a bow with so many foes pressing in on her.

"You and me might be able to stand our ground but these two won't make it!" Freya bellowed at Dorn, who grunted his assent. "Grab one each and we'll charge the hole!"

Dorn took Rancor in his right hand, and Freya held Sarevok's blade in her left. Even for these two, wielding the heavy weapons one handed was a challenge but their options were limited. Dorn hoisted Viconia under one arm and pointed her headfirst like a javelin.

"No, no, no!" Corwin insisted, but the Hero grinned and slipped an arm around her waist.

"Yes, yes, yes!" laughed Freya with a wink.

Brandishing Viconia like a battering ram, Dorn ran at the Crusaders between him and the hole. Freya dragged Corwin along with them, hacking their enemies with her sword as she went. Both she and Dorn were getting cut up but not as badly as Caelar's people. The press of bodies and the speed of their charge did not give the soldiers directly in front of them time to fight back or get out of the way. Instead they were flung down the hole before them, landing with shrieks and crashing armour.

"I hate you Freya!" Corwin screamed as the werewolf dragged her forward through the squirming, clanging mass of armoured grunts like salmon swimming upstream. "You mad fucking dog!"

"You love it, don't lie," Freya winked. "Down we go now!"

"At least look before you leap you idio-arrrgh!"

It was a long way down the shaft but at least the bodies of the Crusaders were there to cushion their fall. The two ogres were watching the moaning pile of soldiers with wide grins. Seeing their tormentors in this state was immensely satisfying. Especially the ones whose whipping arms now bent the wrong way. Einer and his friend were, at least, brighter than Slug. They did nothing to impede Freya and her party's escape, and when the soldiers at the top of the shaft cried 'stop them Einer' the ogres accidentally-on-purpose battered real Crusaders instead. Even when they hollered at them to raise the platform so that they could follow Freya safely, the ogres only obeyed _very_ slowly.

"I think my leg is broken," whimpered Corwin. Freya handed her a healing potion but kept pulling her toward the exit. There were less Crusaders down here than before. Some had fallen under Slug's mighty fists, and others had chased him and his companions from the cave. Those who were left were running to see what the commotion was.

"The Bitch of Baldur's Gate is up there!" Freya hollered brazenly. "Get her!"

Both sets of Crusaders, those above and below, were yelling at each other. Meanwhile the pile of those who had fallen cried out in pain trying to untangle themselves. In the confusion nobody could hear anything and the party got away. As they neared the exit, Viconia's paralysis wore off. She wriggled and kicked at Dorn until he dropped her. The drow wiped his armpit juice from her with an irritated flick of her wrist, then sprinted back into the cavern.

"Viconia, what in the name of Selune's shining arse are you doing?" bellowed Freya. "I specifically told you not to fuck me in the backside and yet that appears to be exactly what you are doing!"

The drow summoned her flaming sword as she ran and skidded to a halt by the fuse they had laid earlier. The others had been so distracted by Hephernaan's altar that they had forgotten the reason they had originally come. Both the Hero and Corwin looked vaguely embarrassed as Viconia had the presence of mind to actually light the explosives they had come all this way to set.

"Oh right," mumbled Freya. "That."

The fuse jumped and sizzled into life in a fountain of sparks. It was burning rather faster than the Duke had led Freya to believe, and Viconia started to run. Still gripping her flaming sword, she streaked past her companions and out the door after Slug. Freya watched the flickering fuse fizzle closer to the explosives.

"Move, moron!" cried Corwin, hauling her by the arm. "The hells is wrong with you?"

Freya jumped and fled the doomed cavern after the others. The truth was that for a split second, she had forgotten who she was. That she was mortal and not a god and that an explosion like this had the power to do her serious damage. Her father would have lost his clothes to the blast but walked away relatively unscathed. Yet she was only one piece of Bhaal among thousands. She was not immune to rocks falling on her head.

As they fled down the corridor, the ground shuddered beneath them and they were thrown about like rice in a balloon. A wall of heat and wind rushed up behind and threw them forward. They catapulted out of the tunnel and into the cool, damp caves below. A cloud of ashes and smoke billowed after them and they stumbled away blindly, hacking and coughing.

Behind them there was a second explosion but their ears rang so hard from the first blast that they felt rather than heard it. It was followed by a deep, thundering rumble that went on and on. A portion of the castle had collapsed if Corwin was any judge. The roof of the cave shuddered and a shower of small stones rained down on them from above. There was a crunching, tumbling sound and boulders big and small rolled out of the passage they had come from. The way back was totally blocked. In the unlikely event that there were survivors in the cavern, they would not be following them.

"Wow!" laughed Freya, though they could barely hear her. Recovering from her shock first, she turned around spreading her arms wide and beaming like the sun. "How damn awesome am I? Come on Schael, admit it, I'm pretty hot."

"Viconia is the hot one, she brought the cavern down," Corwin reminded her acidly. "No, wait. I stand corrected. You _are_ hot. By which I mean your sleeve is on fire."

"Bugger!" yelped Freya, dropping and rolling on instinct until she put it out. Then she hastily unbuckled her dragonhide armour and pulled her shirt off. She was wearing nothing underneath it, though perhaps she did not need to. She was (the charisma tomes had made her) so top heavy that an arrow shot into her bare chest was unlikely to make it as far as her organs.

The Hero did not put her armour back on right away. She stood up straight and threw back her shoulders to make sure Corwin got a good view. Both other women suspected (correctly) that she had not really needed to remove her top in the first place and was just showing off.

"Grow up!" Corwin scoffed. "Arrogance doesn't do it for me."

"How can _this_ not be doing it for you?" protested Freya, gesturing to her flawless body. "I'm basically a god!"

"You'll bring the curse of the gods down on yourself with remarks like that," said Corwin dryly. "And while we're on the subject of the gods, what in the hells happened up there? You were acting like you thought you were…"

"…Bhaal." Viconia finished for her, red eyes narrowing.

"I remembered so much stuff up there," muttered Freya. "This place was important to him. Or _is_ it important to _me_? I'm not sure there's a difference anymore. I don't just remember what he did, I can remember being him. Battling demons up there with Maire and Duke Silvershield. She didn't have the girdle then, but she was damned pretty even with stubble. I wouldn't have kicked her out of bed."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a piss-ignorant git?" Corwin enquired pleasantly.

"Yeah," laughed Freya, as the recollection came flooding back. "Maire did actually. Right before she smacked me in the face. I was the god of fucking murder and she slapped me in the face!" Freya sighed. "I liked her."

"Bhaal knew Maire Silvershield?" Corwin echoed sceptically, "As in Skie's ancestor? The one who you caused me all that grief over when Coran got stuck in her girdle?"

"I'm doubly responsible for causing you that grief!" Freya grinned. The memory was blooming like an opening flower. "I was the one who gave Maire her girdle in the first place. I mean, Bhaal did. He had a lot of volunteers from his cult to be Bhaalspawn carriers. Seemed unfair to turn some of the fattest arses away just because they belonged to men. Equal opportunities and all that. So he made a brace of gender changing girdles."

"Are you trying to be funny? Wizards and healers have been working to recreate Maire's girdle ever since," said Corwin reproachfully. "The greatest minds of Baldur's gate could have been spared a lot of wasted time, if they'd know the thing was custom-made by a god."

"It was fertility charmed too," Freya boasted proudly. "No fear of dispel magic, remove curse or dead magic zones. He didn't want to lose any Bhaalspawn before it was time, just because a girdle slipped off in the night. Nothing but the key gets them off. I happened to have one on me so I offered it to Maire. Duke Silvershield didn't want her to accept a gift from Bhaal, mind."

"You don't say?" said Corwin sourly.

"Oh _gods!_ " Freya cried suddenly. She looked storm-struck. "I just thought of something. If I remember more and more about Bhaal's life what if… what if… _urrgh…_ "

"Are you afraid of becoming more like him?" asked Corwin tentatively. Freya whimpered and shook her head. She looked up at the Captain with wide, stricken grey eyes and grabbed her by the collar in despair.

"What if I start remembering my own conception?" Freya wailed.

"Oh for Helm's sake!" snapped Corwin. "I thought this was something serious!"

"You think this isn't serious?" gulped Freya. "Would you want to remember fucking your own mother? We have to find a way to make these visions stop!"


	42. Sleeping Beauty

"For the last time, Slug, we're not with the Crusaders!" Corwin groaned. Having won his freedom from Caelar's cages, the ogre had been getting his own back by systematically squelching every Crusader he came across. They had followed the trail of corpses back to the exit, where Slug's rampage had culminated in slaughtering the crusader quartermaster and all of his assistants.

Poor Ladle, having cunningly survived Freya's visit, was lying in a pool of blood on the bridge. At least bits of him were. Other parts were flung over supply crates, draped across grain sacks or were oozing their way slowly down the cave walls. The sight prompted the returning party to cautiously remove their Crusader helmets and badges and toss them away. To Ladle's credit, he'd put up a fight. They passed the body of one of Slug's companions drifting down the underground river on their way up. She had two dozen arrows lodged in her broad, gormless face.

Slug himself was found lying beneath a barrel of mead with his mouth open. Drink had not rendered him any more intelligent. They'd tried to sneak around him along the far edge of the cave, and might have bypassed him completely were it not for two problems. The first was that Freya was not adept at sneaking anywhere. She skimmed her head on a dangling stalactite and cursed loudly.

Slug heard this but was delayed by the very great care he took putting down his precious barrel of grog. They still might have made a run for the exit were it not for the second problem. By an extraordinary piece of bad luck, the werewolf fumbled her run and trod on the soft head of a myconid lurking in the shadows. It retaliated by releasing the same spores that had paralysed Rasaad. None of the others saw this happen, all they knew was that the Hero was down and they were facing Slug alone.

"Why can't the simplest missions go smoothly when you're around?" Corwin grumbled at Freya. She released an acid arrow into Slug's face. It let off an acrid smell and left a little burn on the ogre's warty forehead, but the arrow itself bounced off harmlessly.

Freya did not reply. She lay prone on the floor of the cave. Her golden hair spilled out around her frozen face and her grey eyes were shut. She had a perfect sloping nose and long beautiful lashes.

"So pretty, but so dumb," Corwin sighed sadly under her breath.

Viconia, whose personal sense of self-preservation always trumped party loyalty, was standing back to let Dorn do the fighting. The Blackguard raised no objection to this. He was having a grand time. Though he was disappointed not to have dispatched Hephernaan himself, he had lost count of the numbers he had slain this trip. Topping his day off by felling a nice, juicy ogre was the icing on the cake.

He was disappointed, however. Just as their battle reached its climax with Dorn smoothly dodging a blow from Slug's club (actually a ripped off table leg) and raising Rancor to land the lethal blow, Slug keeled over all by himself. Dorn was left blinking in confusion and outrage as the ogre hit the ground with a thud.

"He must have eaten some of that poisoned grain," Viconia smirked. "That, or he's too drunk to go on. He's still breathing, Blackguard, if you would like the honour of slaughtering him in his sleep."

Dorn grunted and sheathed his sword, as the drow went to tend Freya. Now; Viconia had been raised in the Underdark. She knew the work of myconid spores when she saw it, having fallen prey on several occasions herself. Shapur had not been exaggerating about what a nuisance they were. Many was the unlucky drow who had bumped one in the gloom, released their spores and drowned in their own bathtub as a result.

She knew, but did not tell the others. Since they were in no immediate hurry Viconia, who did not like Corwin much, decided to make some mischief.

"I cannot undo this spell," Viconia said heavily. "It is a Sleeping Maiden curse."

Freya opened her eyes at this and was about to say something, but Viconia winked at her. With her back to Dorn and Corwin she pressed her finger to her lips. Interested to see where this was going, the werewolf shut her eyes again and played dead.

"What is a Sleeping Maiden curse?" demanded Dorn.

"It's common in the aristocracy. Usually a way of getting out of forced marriages, but sometimes one rich family's way of getting back at another," Corwin said brusquely. "The victim falls into a sort of magical coma and can only be woken by true love's kiss."

"That seems overcomplicated," Dorn replied.

"What are you talking about?" groaned Corwin.

"Were _I_ a human maiden I would cut the head off of my unwanted suitor and hang it from my balcony as a warning to others," Dorn said pragmatically. "Supposing the true love is slain? Or the family mistake you for dead and bury you?"

"Both have been known to happen," replied Corwin stiffly. Her eye twitched imagining Dorn in a white flowing gown atop one of the balconies of the Ducal palace, the heads of his rejected lovers dangling amongst the roses. "I never said it was sensible, it's just a thing that the upper classes do. Why do nobles charge each other on horseback so they can hit each other with sticks? I guess they think it's romantic."

"I do not imagine that the sanitation arrangements required to deal with such a situation as this 'Sleeping Maiden curse' would be romantic, nor even dignified," the Blackguard pondered. "Viconia, you have shared bedrolls with the werewolf. Lift this ridiculous curse and let us move on. You all look tired and could use a night's rest."

Viconia smiled and kissed Freya. It was a long, slow, open-mouthed kiss that would doubtless be leaving Corwin fuming. Freya had no idea where her cleric was going with this, but since she was quite enjoying what was happening so far, she kept her eyes closed and stayed put.

"Alas, it seems that I am not her true love," Viconia said standing up. "Who would have thought it? Dorn, you will simply have to carry her back to camp. We'll let Skie Silvershield give it a go."

"Freya's not in love with Skie, she said so," Corwin cut in edgily.

"Well that is most unfortunate," Viconia replied, clasping her hand to her chest in mock-concern. "It seems we must end this war absent the Hero of Baldur's Gate. Unless there is another candidate?"

"Do not look to me. I am not kissing that," Dorn said firmly, nudging Freya with his boot. "Were she my suitor she would certainly be one for the balcony. What about you, human?"

"Me?" squeaked Corwin. "No… I… no. That definitely won't work. Me and Freya? Are you mad?"

The Hero lay prone and beautiful and also, because she was not in fact asleep, achingly uncomfortable on the stone floor. Corwin's eyes traced her curves and the handsome line of her jaw. She was so much more attractive when she wasn't talking. Viconia stepped forward and placed a hand on Corwin's arm seriously.

"She could end up like this forever," Viconia said with feigned sincerity. "If there is even a chance that she is your true love you should try to break the curse."

"I can't just kiss her while she's unconscious! There are consent issues here," fretted Corwin.

"Nah, it's cool. I consent," said Freya idly, without opening her eyes.

It took Corwin a second to register that she had been tricked. Then she swelled with rage, so much so that she drew an acid arrow and aimed it directly at Freya's haughty, arrogant face. Viconia tittered but Dorn, who was fatigued and still sore about missing out on his ogre battle, merely grunted with impatience.

"ARSEHOLE!" screamed Corwin. "You were awake this whole time?!"

"Paralysed," said Freya, "It's starting to wear off. I can move my eyes and my mouth."

"Shame," remarked Dorn. "All the useful parts are immobile, but the one bit of you we all wish could be paralysed forever still works."

"So what's this about true love?" the werewolf enquired teasingly. Corwin opened and shut her mouth.

"You remember me saying that it wasn't going to work?" the officer spluttered.

"Yeah, but you were still considering doing it. Which means you thought there was a small chance it might work," Freya grinned. "I knew it. You want me."

"She's still partially paralysed," Dorn pointed out to Corwin in a dark rumble, "If we're quick about it, we could drag her into the river and drown her."

"No point," snapped Corwin, who was not entirely sure that the half-orc was joking. "Her massively inflated ego would keep her from sinking."

Unexpectedly, they met Jaheira's party at the cave entrance. They had doubled back in case Freya's group had contracted the dysentery and were horrified to learn the true nature of the plague, though not entirely surprised.

"I told you it was not a natural illness," Jaheira declared smugly. "Well Hephernaan has failed in his little ploy. We will bring the cure back to camp and then send it on to Baldur's Gate."

"He didn't fail totally. It has killed good people already," Arrow observed glumly, thinking of the priest of Ilmater. She hoped that the Flaming Fist would catch Hephernaan's acolytes in the chapel before they were able to wreak any more havoc.

"We have done well here," insisted Jaheira. Khalid nodded. "Such an action, to wipe out all those of one alignment, would have destroyed the balance across the Sword Coast. It is a commendable thing that we were able to prevent it."

The others nodded sagely, though for some reason this statement made Dorn chuckle. Arrow eyed him warily. She was regretting bringing him in a big way and was hoping that an opportunity to be rid of him would present itself soon. Despite the warnings from Eric and Sarevok she would not be entirely sorry if Dorn succeeded in slaying the Servant of all Faiths. Yet the glimpses of the horrible future Ur-Gothoz had planned were haunting her dreams.

They made camp for the night and she felt his beetle-like eyes on her often across the fire. Not in the lustful way he looked at Dynaheir, but as a fox watches a rabbit. While she waited for their meal to cook, Arrow followed the tinkling sound of running water to a nearby stream. It bubbled out from the rockface, an offshoot of the underground river. Though it looked clear and clean she knew how many corpses were floating in it upstream and did not drink, but it was still good enough for a wash. As she splashed the cool water into her face, a long shadow fell over her.

"Jaheira and Dynaheir did well to thwart Hephernaan's plague," Dorn rumbled. "I confess when I first met the Rashemen witch I thought her weak, but I have changed my mind. For all her good-alignment, her pleasure in the Red Wizard's death was evident and she does not flinch from bloodshed."

"Good isn't weak," Arrow replied grimly. "And evil isn't strong."

"Inherently perhaps not. There are feeble, grovelling creatures of all alignments and I have learnt during this war that power comes in many forms," Dorn mused. "Mine, that gifted by Ur-Gothoz, is the power of physicality."

"And what is mine?" Arrow asked lightly.

"You have no inherent power, Little Lamb," the half-orc replied sharply. "Your role is to be used by others like the placid piece of livestock you are."

Arrow blinked. At first she thought that Dorn was making a joke, but the Blackguard was glaring at her with dark contempt. In response she threw her head back and laughed so hard that her eyes pricked with tears. Confusion mingled with disgust was written on her bodyguard's every feature.

"I thought you were going in a completely different direction with that," she admitted, wiping away tears of mirth. "I thought you were going to say my power was compassion or the friends who surround me or something."

"Why would I spout such ridiculous drivel?" questioned Dorn, insulted.

Arrow shook her head and moved downstream to find Rasaad sitting cross-legged, watching the light of the waning moon reflecting on the water. His trousers and dripping shirt were hanging from the branch of a nearby tree, though he had kept a small cloth for modesty. He was different now from the young monk she had accidentally shot in a Nashkel wood. He still bore that faint, round mark on his left shoulder but it had been joined by a host of nastier scars. The eyes of Selune tattooed onto his chest had been permanently blinded by dragon talons and her fire had left twisting burn scars up his legs. Painful stretches every day were needed to stop them stiffening. Yet the heaviest scars he bore were not visible to the eye.

"Freya isn't meditating this evening?" Arrow asked casually.

"Freya is drinking," replied Rasaad with a frown. Slug was fortunate to be alive but he would not be a happy ogre when he woke to find his mead gone. Then he sighed and shook his head. There was nothing he could do about that. Besides Freya's interest in meditation had waned with the moon. To her it was a functional necessity that could be neglected at this stage in the cycle. Arrow sat down beside him with a troubled smile. "Something is worrying you my friend. What is it?"

"A lot of things," Arrow said. "The war is looming, Irenicus is still hunting us, Freya's growing more Bhaal-like by the day, Imoen seems to be losing her mind and Ilmater only knows what sort of situation we're going to find when we get back to Baldur's Gate. I ran into a fellow Ilmatari the other day who has landed himself in a dire situation that he probably won't survive and Ur-Gothoz's interest in me can't bode well. And I'm worried about you."

"Me?" Rasaad blinked, surprised. "Do not be. I feel a great deal better, and more so since we talked."

"I'm glad," replied Arrow quietly.

They sat in silence for a while. What Rasaad wanted to do next was close the space between them but he was not sure how to go about it. The ranger's legs were stretched out before her, long and toned from habitual walking. The monk found himself gripped by an overpowering urge to run his hands up them.

"Your combat technique is improving," he ventured hesitantly, trying to compliment her without being too obvious.

"Yes. As it must with a teacher like Dorn Il-Khan," agreed Arrow with an amused expression. "No student of his would dare fail him. Though _why_ he wants to help me preys on my mind a lot."

She sank into grim silence again, staring at the inky water. He did not think that she had been so pessimistic when they had first travelled together. Of course, back then they had been accompanied by Xan, legendary prophet of misery, next to whom anybody must look chirpy. The hum of crickets and the running water made the quietness less awkward, but Rasaad tried once more to start a conversation that was not about their own, or anyone else's, impending doom.

"It is a lovely evening," said Rasaad, gesturing at the twinkling stars above their heads.

"It is isn't it?" replied Arrow.

"It cannot compare to your beauty, but it is lovely nonetheless," he told her earnestly.

Arrow had to battle to keep a straight face. It was a line worthy of the cheesiest of courting knights and impossible for someone like her to take seriously. Still, Rasaad was doing his best, and she knew he would be hurt if she made fun of his inexperience.

"You are a terrible liar Rasaad," she said, turning her body toward him. "But a sweet one."

"I am a servant of Selune! I would not lie to you Arowan!" he cried, shocked at the accusation. This time Arrow failed to suppress her laughter and the poor monk stared at her with confused, brown eyes. His brows lifted into a peak of anxiety. "I will leave you to your thoughts then?" he tried. It was a question, not a statement and Arrow got the distinct impression that he was guessing what he was supposed to say. Then suddenly his forehead knotted and his eyes flashed with anger at himself. He rose to his feet abruptly. "I am sorry. This is a waste of time."

"Sit down," smiled Arrow.

Rasaad did so, but he looked profoundly uncomfortable. He sat hunched with his arms around his knees, and further away from her than he had been before. After everything that had happened between them, she was still rather reticent about making any sort of move. It tended to result in reflex rejection. Yet he had promised her he would not do it again and sooner or later she would have to start trusting him. She patted the patch of ground beside her.

Partly out of eagerness at the invitation, but also because he did not wish to risk her thinking he was pulling back again, he scrambled over and pressed his mouth to her own. He misjudged their difference in size, and Arrow was so surprised that they ended up tumbling backward into the grass. Face burning with embarrassment, Rasaad made to pull away but she lifted her hand to his cheek and drew him back in.

He couldn't think of anything but how warm her body felt under him and her breath against his cheek. Arrow's hair smelled like the honey-soap she'd learnt to make as a ranger, and he ran his fingers through it with a low moan. Her hand stroked up his bare chest, feeling his heart beat with excitement. It was not until they broke apart that it occurred to Rasaad that he was naked. Except for a cloth which, in his current state, was serving no function. Her eyes did flicker down and she turned pink beneath her freckles, but she smiled at him shyly.

"I seem to be making a mess of this," he admitted breathlessly. He felt as though he ought to say something chivalrous and romantic, but while he was thinking he found his eyes drawn back to her legs. As soon as he caught himself, he forced himself to look back at her face, but she'd noticed. He could tell that she had because she took his hand and guided it to her calf.

Feeling a little more confident, he kissed her again lightly, enjoying the tingling sensation of his mouth against hers. Her eyes fluttered closed and she let out a little 'mmm' of pleasure while he caressed her leg. He drew back and gazed at her freckled face, hardly able to believe that he was finally getting to do this.

"What are you thinking?" Arrow asked him, stroking his jawline.

"That I want to be doing this forever," Rasaad murmured.

This, however, was not going to be an option. A great bark of irksome laughter rang out through the night sending the crickets scattering in all directions. The pair tensed and glanced back in the direction of the camp. There was nobody there, but despite not being interrupted directly Freya's next words were something of a mood-killer.

"I reckon…" a drunken voice smashed through the peace of the evening, "That we need an objunctive… objostic… objective! An objective opinion. Rasaad! RASAAAAD! You're never around when I need you! Dorn ain't had a bath since he joined the march, I say it's time we forced the issue!"

Rasaad had to dress in a hurry. Freya wouldn't have batted an eyelid about catching him in this state, but it was not a situation he fancied finding himself in. Besides, this was the most intimate by far that he had ever been with a woman. He wanted their first time, if Arowan would consent to lie with him, to be private, romantic and… not interrupted by the Bitch of Baldur's Gate.

They returned to camp where Khalid had just brought the cooking pot to simmer. His nose was buried in the task and Arrow suspected that he was trying to avoid attracting the drunk werewolf's attention. The conversation had already moved on, though Dorn had his arms folded and looked exceedingly put out. Dynaheir was sitting between him and Minsc, with a restraining hand placed on each man's knee. Her eyes were not watching Freya, but Viconia. Dynaheir had made a point of avoiding the drow ever since she had helped Edwin try to murder her. It was clear from her rigid expression that all was not forgiven. A muscle was twitching in her temple and every so often her fingers sparked, making her men flinch.

"I'm just sayin' Jaheira," Freya went on, waving her waterskin around. "That not all men enjoy butt play, glands or no glands, and no offence to Khalid!" Arrow watched her father's face crease miserably, "But when you told us about his… I'm sorry, your 'hypothetical man's' interests it made me wince a bit. I'm not judging, but it's a bit damned odd. That's all I'm saying."

"What would you know about men?" Dorn growled, looking as though he would quite like to spit-roast the obnoxious Hero over the fire and eat her for dinner instead of Khalid's stew.

They were all famished. It had been a long day and even with limited ingredients the half-elf was an accomplished cook. Arrow had shot them a pheasant earlier and though it was little more than seasoning for the vegetables they'd brought with them from camp, it still smelled mouth-wateringly good when boiled in lemongrass. Freya's next words, however, put them off their food and ensured that Rasaad's cock stayed down for the rest of the evening.

"I know nothing at all about men," admitted Freya, taking a large swig and declaring proudly, "But I do know _a lot_ about haemorrhoids!"

Jaheira glared at her disapprovingly, Khalid winced and Corwin buried her face into her palms. Viconia did not respond at all, she was eyeing Dynaheir warily. The Rashemen still hadn't taken her eyes off of her. It was then that Arrow spotted an empty bottle lying by the witch's feet and realised that she too had been hitting the drink. This was a situation that needed diffusing quickly, ideally by packing everyone off into separate tents.

"And I am telling you without a shadow of a doubt that no man who suffers them as I do," Freya informed them, "No matter what his sexual preferences, is ever, in this lifetime or the next…"

"You don't have to finish this sentence," begged Rasaad.

"…going to agree to having things poked up his arse!"

"And yet you said it anyway," the monk sighed. "Has it occurred to you that being homosexual yourself does not render you immune from being, for want of a more diplomatic word, bigoted?"

"What?" yelped Freya. "Oh, come off it Rasaad it was a joke!"

"I'm not laughing," growled Dorn.

"It has been a long day," said Viconia who wanted to escape from Dynaheir's staring. "Hurry up and feed us male so that we can go to bed!"

"Speak to my husband like that again and when we return to Baldur's Gate the first thing I will do is look up Jessa Vai and see about getting myself a wig made out of your scalp. Not to wear, you understand. Just to keep as a trophy," Jaheira snarled.

"M- my dear there's n- n- no need to," Khalid stammered.

"No indeed," agreed Dynaheir in a voice like a frost wyrm. "Viconia needs her sleep. I daresay she has a lot of things to do. For a lot of individuals."

"I don't know what you mean," replied Viconia, truthfully.

"I have _faith_ that thou will construe my meaning," the witch said archly, draining the remainder of Minsc's tankard. "Mine words usually _serve_ their purpose."

"Woah there," Freya cut in, in a low rumble, for it was clear now to everyone but Dorn that she was referring to the Servant of all Faiths. It was a reminder to her would-be-assassin that she could let slip her identity at any time. If, in her inebriated state, Dynaheir told him, then the Blackguard would almost certainly attempt to slay Viconia as he had Edwin. "I wouldn't go there lady, unless you want me to end your boyfriend's stench in a very permanent way."

"WAS THAT A THREAT?" Dorn hollered, leaping to his feet. He had removed his armour for the evening but Rancor was never far from his side. In an instant it was pointing in Freya's face. This was an error of judgement. Drunk or sober, the Hero was faster than he was. Her twin bastard swords clipped either side of the Blackguard's blade and twisted it from his hand.

Freya caught it with a laugh, dropping her own swords in the process and drew Sarevok's sword. She was now dual wielding with two double-handed swords, but this was beyond even her capacity. She twirled them around and lost her grip on both. Freya blinked at them, shrugged and started sprouting fur, though she was swaying slightly.

"Enough!" Jaheira commanded imperiously, stepping between Freya and Dorn. "Tents, everyone! We'll bring your food to you. I suggest in the morning our two parties head back separately, since some of us are incapable of behaving like adults."

"Agreed!" snapped Corwin. "Freya you're a childish thug. I can't believe that for a while you actually had me believing any different."

Rasaad ought to have been relieved that such a fight between their two groups was averted. Yet he possessed a young man's body with its own agenda, and they'd separated him from Arrow again. His instinct was to take Freya and Dorn and bash their thick skulls together, though it was as well that he didn't for it would have amounted to suicide. His blood still pounded with adrenaline. If they had not been interrupted…

The ranger's tent was close to his and as they retired early he wondered if she might share it with him. Yet with Dorn's stink, Minsc's snoring and worse, Arrow's parents in the next tent, it was not an ideal situation. They'd march on Dragonspear soon, they'd have to. Afterwards there'd be plenty of time. They could take their tent somewhere secluded or book a nice room in one of the inns. He meant to give most of his share of the dragon horde to help the refugees rebuild but spending a little couldn't hurt.

He had to remind himself that Arrow had not actually consented to this yet, but he had good reason for optimism. It was only as he waivered on the edge of sleep that nerves started to creep in again. Supposing Coran was better than him? Indeed, with so much practise how could Coran not be better than him? Alone in the dark his heart began hammering again but for an entirely new and unpleasant reason. It was not until near dawn that he finally caught some rest.

This mattered less than it normally might have done. Freya had imbibed too much alcohol for even her enhanced body to process and it was clear that she would not be rising before noon. As for Dynaheir, Dorn held her hair and gently admonished her foolishness. She was vomiting so hard that Minsc started fretting that the dysentery cure hadn't worked.

"Oh, it worked!" snapped Jaheira forcing one of her home brews down the witch's gullet with irritated roughness. "This is entirely self-inflicted. I understand that you are upset about Freya and Viconia, but one evening with them leading you to half-poison yourself is a gross overreaction!"

Their discomfort gave Rasaad another morning with Arrow, and the pair of them spent most of it in the woods. Nobody was fooled for an instant by the ranger's insistence that they were catching lunch. Nor were they surprised when she came back empty handed. It was a warm but drizzly morning and the pair of them spent it under the shelter of a large oak, laying in each other's arms. Lodged in the tree's ancient roots with his hands exploring under her tunic, Rasaad could not help but think himself a fool for denying them this for so long.

Arrow ran one hand around the small of his back, and with the other clung to his upper arm. The muscle was so hard that he might have been a statue, except warm, moving and pressing against her. Feeling the length of him pressing into her thigh reminded her of a piece of unwelcome advice Viconia had given her a long time ago. Something about a cock the size of his not belonging in the hands of a novice. Reluctant though she was to concede that the cleric might ever be right about anything, she was privately rather relieved that when the time came, he wasn't going to be her first. When they heard their names being called to move on, his body screamed in protest at being parted from her. It sent wild thoughts spiralling through his mind about running off with her into the forest and not coming back. His head was telling him that it was foolish to be thinking of this when they had a war to win. Whereas other parts of him said that Caelar could open the doors to hell and let the world burn, so long as he could be inside Arowan first.

It came time for the groups to take separate routes back to camp. Rasaad glanced back at her longingly until the flick of her short brown ponytail was out of sight. He had earned many suspicious scowls from Khalid and Jaheira, but this did not worry the monk too much. The Harpers would, he hoped, have a long time to get used to the idea.

In the meantime, there was a matter he had to attend to. Corwin was practically frogmarching Freya back to the camp, and she had taken to referring to her as 'Sergeant Candlekeep' again. Every so often she'd bark an order in a loud ringing tone, making the hungover werewolf whimper and clutch her head. Rasaad was sure that she was doing this on purpose, and he hesitated to approach the Captain while she was in such a foul mood. Yet they would be marching on Dragonspear soon and it was possible that he might not get another opportunity.

"Pardon me for asking," he said, drawing alongside the officers, "But I was wondering if, as Captain of the Fist, you had heard of any unusual disappearances in Baldur's Gate?"

"As opposed to the _usual_ disappearances?" Corwin snapped, yanking Freya by the shoulder to force her to change direction. The Hero tripped on a log buried beneath a pile of leaf litter, fell on her face and did not rise again.

"Several of my sect disappeared, more than can be explained by coincidence," said Rasaad. "I believe the followers of Selune have been targeted.

"Now that you mention it I did hear a couple of Selunites went missing," said Corwin, prodding Freya with her foot disdainfully. "One was seen struggling against several robed figures as I recall. But why are you only bringing it up now?"

"Would you like to explain that one Freya?" Rasaad asked tersely. The golden mess at their feet raised herself onto her elbows. It looked like a lot of effort. There were large bags under her bleary grey eyes and her face was red and mottled.

"Rasaad was under the… erm… impression that the missing monks had joined the crusade," confessed Freya, tugging her collar guiltily. "I may have had a minor role in feeding him that information."

"By which you mean you blackmailed the priests tending refugees in the Iron Throne to tell me that is what happened!" the monk cut in.

"Technically it was a bribe!" retorted Freya defensively. Corwin's lip was curling in disgust, prompting Freya to add; "Look, I couldn't get through full moon by myself. I needed you Rasaad, I'm sorry. Besides you were considering selling me to Irenicus, I think that balances out!"

" _Pardon?_ " demanded Corwin sharply.

"Not important, he didn't do it," said Freya hastily. "Point is now that full moon is over, and everyone survived unchewed…"

"…she told me the truth and I am resuming my investigations," Rasaad finished for her.


	43. Siege of Dragonspear

"Mmmm mmph, oh fuck me. Fuck me that's good!"

Arrow smiled. It was nice to see her efforts so appreciated. Seeing her friend's eyes closed in ecstasy more than compensated for the difficulty she'd had in pulling this together. There was a moan of raw pleasure. The ranger glanced nervously at the side of the tent. Sure, it was great to receive such enthusiastic praise but her grateful recipient needed to cut the volume. Otherwise Ilmater knew what soldiers passing by would think was going on.

"Mmm, oh yeah… Arrow you're a goddess!"

"Imoen it's just a sandwich," she said repressively.

"Not just a sandwich," sighed Imoen, gazing lovingly at the last little bite. "A shredded venison sandwich with melted cheese on seeded bread. It even has lettuce to add crunch. Where in Faerun did you get fresh lettuce?"

Arrow had struck astonishingly lucky on the way back from the caves. A deer, a lean young buck, had sprung out onto the path in front of them. It spotted the party and froze in surprise, just long enough for her to shoot it. It was such an unusual thing to happen that as soon as they returned to camp, Jaheira insisted on it being checked for spells or poison before anyone ate it. Just in case the Crusade had sent it, but it was no trap. Just dumb luck.

Better yet, she'd been allowed to keep a surprising amount of the meat. The soldiers were relieved beyond measure that they had brought back a cure for the dysentery. Even those officers who were unaffected had seen their fellows struck down and were fearfully awaiting their turn. Freya, of course, received the bulk of the credit. Much to Arrow's annoyance.

"It is just as well," Jaheira muttered in her ear. "As Harpers, your father and I need to keep a low profile."

Freya was more adulated than ever for bringing back the cure. Duke Silvershield had been hoping that her dip in popularity over the Boareskyr Bridge incident might become permanent. He was sadly disappointed. The Flaming Fist and their allies were fawning over her and her friends. Even Viconia was getting her share of praise, and Rasaad had a sneaking suspicion that she was not really so disgusted by it as she was making out.

"Take it back to the city!" Freya called, to roaring cheers. She slapped the messenger's horse on the rump and sent it cantering away to rapturous applause, it's rider ringing like a bell from all the potion bottles strapped to him. She struggled free of the crowd grinning and being patted and saluted by the soldiers. As she emerged she was greeted by Skie. The Duke glared mutely at her from a distance, while Captain Corwin hovered awkwardly between him and the Hero, unsure of whose side she was on.

"They'll love you more now," said Skie, with a sad smile.

"Yup," agreed Freya happily. "I suppose they will."

"And hate us even more," Skie sighed. Freya frowned at her, puzzled. "Daddy, I mean. And me by association. It wasn't exactly difficult to cure the dysentery. Jaheira and Dynaheir managed it between them. Daddy has much better healers and mages than those two. He could have done it himself but he ignored it and let it spread."

She lapsed into thoughtful silence. The light from the sentry torches played over her pale face and a dark curl escaped her elegant bun. Though as immaculate as ever, she seemed tired and drawn. Freya had never seen her so sad but could think of nothing to say.

"I can catch the messenger if I run on all fours with a haste potion. We could send the cure to the city under the Silvershield banner?" suggested Freya. "Pretend it was all your father's idea?" Skie seemed to consider this.

"No," she replied at length. "I'm afraid it's far too late for that. Besides the soldiers know it was you."

"Strictly speaking…" Freya began uneasily.

"…it was Jaheira. I know. But you were there, so they credit you," said Skie. There was a long and uncomfortable silence. "We march for Dragonspear tomorrow. Then you go home a Hero, Daddy will probably be killed by the mob and I'll be shipped off to Amn. To marry some inbred noble my father had to bribe to take me. I hear he's got a daughter two years older than me. Not that you care."

"What?" Freya yelped. It was a cold accusation and an unfair one. "Why would you say that? Of course I care!"

"Not enough to do anything about it!" Skie snapped suddenly.

"That's not true! You know I'd do anything for you!" The werewolf cried unhappily. She did not want Skie to be her alpha, but she was, and her disapproval was unbearable. "We have the army to protect your father. Send me to Amn if you like. I promise in a moon's time there won't be an Amnian to wed you to! Just tell me what you want from me and see it done!"

"You are utterly useless!" Skie folded her arms and flounced away indignantly, nose in the air. The Hero stood bemused, not realising that she was still being watched. A triumphant smile was tugging at the corners of the Duke's lips. Corwin looked more conflicted.

She sought the Hero out after supper, their last before they assaulted the castle. At least, for once, Freya was not drinking from her waterskin but sipping actual water from a cup. The Hero had not had water for a long time and was not enjoying reacquaintance with the taste, if her expression was anything to go by. She was staring out in the direction of Dragonspear, though it was masked by the forest. A pointy, pitch-black treeline eclipsed the stars in a jagged line along the horizon. They shone in their thousands on this cloudless night.

"In a city you rarely see the stars," remarked Corwin. "They're beautiful tonight."

"If you think they're beautiful here, you should try seeing them from the heavens," Freya replied.

Corwin frowned. The problem was that, in spite of everything, she really liked Freya and she feared that it was clouding her judgement. Even the things she knew were wrong with her were enough, never mind the things that might be. She was certainly immature, infatuated with Skie and lacking common sense. She was a drunk, a petty criminal and a werewolf. At best she was the child of Bhaal, at worst…

"Are you actually Bhaal? Is that really what you think?" she demanded.

"I dunno," muttered Freya. "Rasaad thinks that _he_ might be _me_."

"I don't have time for theology," snapped Corwin.

"Then why ask?" Freya shrugged. Corwin scowled. The other woman had a point, but she was loathe to admit it. "To a certain extent I am Bhaal, definitely. There's no getting around it. Look… Bhaal is like this cup of water, ok?"

Freya dipped her fingers into the cup and pulled them out dripping, then she flicked water droplets out in front of them so that they twinkled like the stars above. Then she dipped her forefinger in again and placed one drop carefully on the back of her hand. Then a second, then a third and a fourth.

"Bhaal was the water," she explained. "The droplets are his children. This big, sexy-ass drop is me. That one's Arrow. Let's call that drop Eric." She flicked the fourth drop into the dirt at her feet and trod on it. "And there's Sarevok. Obviously, they're not all the same droplet."

She tipped her hand and let the drops representing herself, Arrow and Eric slip back into her drink.

"But now they are the same drink again," she explained. "The lake becomes the droplets, and the droplets become the lake. But is it the _same_ drink that it was before? Those droplets changed a little bit while they were outside the glass. Maybe Eric got mixed with a bit of my hand sweat, and Arrow was imbued with a piece of dirt from under my fingernail. See what I mean?"

Corwin peered into the cup. As far as she was concerned it certainly looked like the same drink. She wasn't naturally drawn toward philosophy, and tended to see the world in terms of light and dark. Lawful and unlawful. Good and evil. And the Lord of Murder, no matter what form he took or what Rasaad may think, automatically qualified as evil.

"I was Bhaal before and I will be Bhaal again," said Freya quietly. "Short of losing my soul, I don't believe that anything I can do will change that. But when I reform, I'll have my experience and my memories as well as his. Bhaal won't be the same god."

"He won't be a raping, murdering lunatic?" spat Corwin.

"I was never a rapist," Freya growled. She could not remember every detail of Bhaal's life, but instinctively she felt this. She frowned and admitted, "Some people would have called me a lunatic. I was definitely a murderer. I still am. So are you."

"I'm not a murderer. Have I killed? Yes. But never an innocent. Never for personal gain. Never without cause," Corwin replied defiantly. "Never without a reason."

"So what? There's always a reason!" Freya cried suddenly. "All those murderers out there, Bhaal's accidental followers! Doesn't matter if they're struggling to survive, that they weren't raised to know any better or that they're too far gone in the mind to sift right from wrong. Perhaps a boy kills an abusive master, or a husband returns from war too traumatized to readjust and one day he snaps. Maybe an innocent prisoner kills her equally innocent guard to escape execution, or a paladin slaughters a necromancer in the name of truth and justice. There's _always_ a reason for murder, but it's still murder. That's why there will always be a vacancy in the pantheon for a god of murder, whether it's Bhaal or Cyric. And now we have to go and murder Caelar."

"It isn't murder, it's war. Caelar forced us into this," Corwin retorted, as though daring Freya to disagree.

"Damn shame that, she's a fine-looking lass," Freya said, though it sounded as though she was leering more out of habit than that her heart was truly in it. "Yeah, I know. I'm a 'childish arsehole.' We'd best turn in, Sir. Big day tomorrow."

Sleep came and dawn followed, damp and sticky. They rose to a thick white mist circling their ankles. It soaked through their boots so that the army advanced with squelches rather than the dignified sound of an army drill. It was soon driven away by the sun which emerged bright and hot. By the time they reached the castle their boots were still soaking but now it was from sweat.

For the first time Corwin and Freya got a proper look at their handiwork. Their underground explosion had brought down a turret and a large part of the western castle wall, so that the great iron doors to the portal chamber were now exposed to air. The blast had also caused the dragon skeleton to collapse forward. Its gleaming skull had sunk to ground level atop the pile of fallen mortar, its spine making a convenient stairway to the top.

The castle might be a state but its defenders were pristine. They were dressed in shining white and silver armour, even the hobgoblins. How they had managed to keep so clean the officers of the Fist could not fathom, though some of the smarter ones suspected that it might have something to do with the unlucky peasants abducted into Caelar's service. To their surprise, the gates to the castle opened briefly and about a hundred men and women spilled out. There was a rustle as a dense thicket of arrows were drawn from their quivers and aimed in their direction.

Arrow watched from amongst the archers, but lowered her new bow. She had not raised the subject of Corwin's spare weapon and thus far the older woman had not asked for it back. The ranger hoped that she might have forgotten. She squinted into the distance. Several of the men were removing their shirts as quickly as they could.

"Take aim!" bellowed Corwin.

"Hold your fire! HOLD YOUR FIRE!" yelled Arrow. "They're surrendering, look!"

The crowd of people hovering outside the closing gates struggled free of their shirts. Arrow was correct in her guess, for they raised them above their heads, waving them like flags.

"What in the nine hells is going on?" bellowed Duke Silvershield, reigning his horse around.

"They'll be the pressganged farmers!" Skie cried. "Caelar must have kicked them out in case they betray her, now that she doesn't need them anymore. Let them pass!"

"Let them pass? They might be assassins for all we know!" thundered Silvershield. "We can't take that chance, fire on my mark!"

"Don't!" Arrow screamed at him. "Please, don't! Some of the refugees said that their families had been taken by force. Those people are probably them. They're not even armed. I beg of you in Ilmater's name, don't do this!"

"Father, think of what is happening back home," Skie pleaded, quietly but with equal urgency. "You mustn't. For every one of them there's a family of refugees who will take up arms for the Blue Beards if you give this order."

"ARCHERS READY!"

"Sir," interjected Corwin urgently, "I really don't think-"

"You worthless piece of filth!" Arrow spat at him, with a venom she normally reserved for Viconia DeVir. She was so far down the pecking order, however, that the Duke took no notice. He did pay attention when Skie pushed through the rows of Fists to get to him and whispered something in his ear. His pinched face stiffened and his nostrils flared.

"I'll tell Freya to order them to stop," Skie threatened.

Duke Silvershield turned slowly to stare at his daughter, as though he could not believe his own ears. He had thought, or at least fervently hoped, that her affair with Eldoth had been the worst of her rebellion. He cursed himself for spoiling her and being too soft. Perhaps a spell in one of the Flaming Fist cells when they returned to Baldur's Gate would shock some sense into her before her marriage. After it had been cleaned of course, and the bedding changed. He wouldn't want her to catch anything nasty.

"Even if you did," he began, his voice trembling with fury. "Even if you could persuade your dog to risk hanging for treason by countermanding my orders, it would make no difference. I am head of the Flaming Fist. They would answer to me, not the Bitch of Baldur's Gate."

"How sure are you of that?" asked Skie slyly. "I mean really? If you order them to shoot probable civilians and their Hero orders them not to. How confident are you that they'll pick you?"

The Duke paused. His face contorted with rage and he raised his hand. For a moment Arrow actually thought he might hit Skie, though she seemed confident that he wouldn't since she didn't so much as flinch.

"ARCHERS STAND DOWN!" the Duke hollered, adding under his breath, "We will speak of this later, girl."

"Infantry ready, we march as soon as the farmers are clear!" Corwin called out. "Sergeant Candlekeep, Corporal Duncan, lead your divisions and I'll follow with the archers. Mages, with the catapults. I want those rocks burning like the hells that mad woman plans to open!"

While they waited to the steady drum of their own hearts, another row broke out between father and daughter. Duke Silvershield wanted to shell the crusaders but Skie had spotted a problem while she was spying on Dragonspear. Their catapults were small, mobile and had limited range. The siege weaponry Caelar had here did not need to be wheeled anywhere so the Crusaders had built it huge. Behind the walls, Skie said, they had vast trebuchets and because part of the castle had been blown to chunks of rock they also had unlimited ammunition to load them with.

These weapons were sure to decimate their ranks before the catapults could reach them. Skie was adamant that a subgroup would have to break the line and take the trebuchets out first. Only when they returned should they launch magical burning boulders as they had at Bridgefort. Corwin agreed and once again the Duke was reluctantly obliged to listen to his daughter, but there was a snag to his acquiescence.

"Sergeant Candlekeep," he said with a twisted smile. "You will lead a party of, oh I think six total should suffice, and take out the trebuchets. We will engage the main army. Send up a flare when you succeed and we will start rolling the catapults forward. When you get back, we'll unleash hell on them."

Freya gulped and bit her lip doubtfully. There were hundreds of Crusaders waiting for them and there would be no sneaking to the trebuchets. Fighting her way in and out seemed like a stupid plan, even to her. In all likelihood the skeletal dragon adorning the battlements would soon be joined by werewolf bones.

"Only six?"

"Six, I believe is standard for an adventuring party," sneered the Duke, "And traditions must be observed. Can you do it?"

"Sir," replied Freya, with far more bravado than she felt. "I'm a dog and the biggest pile of bones in the Sword Coast is sitting on that castle. You can bet your arse I'll find a way to get to them."

She was, at least, allowed to choose which six. Finding Rasaad and Viconia amongst the battalions was easy. As the only ones not in uniform the adventurers stood out like swans among a flock of ducks. This might be a poor metaphor for her next choice, Dorn, in that he was not the least bit pure or graceful. Though like a swan, he was packed with irrational, violent aggression, so perhaps the description fitted after all.

The Blackguard's reaction when she asked him to come was peculiar. For several minutes he glared into the blade of his sword, so intently that she was about to give up and edge away, when he suddenly shook his head. Freya was almost relieved. For her werewolf nose, his stench was genuinely quite distracting though she could have used his strength. He scowled resentfully at Rancor as he sheathed it.

"Did you see that?" hissed Viconia. "Dorn wouldn't turn down a fight like this voluntarily. His demon patron must have told him not to help us."

"Looks that way," shrugged Freya.

"Well doesn't that bother you?" Viconia cried, in exasperation at her fur-brained leader's need to have everything spelled out for her. "Caelar's trying to release demons into the world, what if this Ur-Gothoz is one of them? He might be planning to stab us in the back the first chance he gets!"

"I don't think so," replied the werewolf after a moment's thought. "I was paralysed in that cave, remember? He'd only have had to take out you and Corwin which, no offense, he's strong enough to do, and I'd have been at his mercy. That's the best opportunity to slay me that he's ever likely to get. Besides it didn't sound to me like his master and Herphernaan's are exactly best buddies."

Viconia looked up at her beseechingly, the sweat hanging from her lashes like tear drops. Her normally sleek, silvery hair fell in bedraggled clumps around her shoulders. Though she was intentionally trying to look appealing, some of the fear in her face was genuine. Freya bent down closing the wide height difference between them and said softly;

"I know we need to deal with Dorn Il-Khan. Sooner or later he'll figure out that you're the Servant of all Faiths and come after you. I mean to deal with him before that, I promise, but I can't do it right here and now. We'll get rid of him just as soon as we've dealt with Caelar. Don't worry about it."

"And I will help," added Rasaad unexpectedly. Viconia stared at him in amazed gratitude and her heart gave a most undrow-like flutter. "Dorn serves a demon and he and his master are preying on Arowan. I will not engage in any underhand methods but I will certainly fight him, if that's what it takes to get him to leave her alone."

Viconia felt momentarily dejected and then blindingly angry. Of course, the simple-minded moon male had wanted to protect Arowan and not her. Well, that was his loss. She could have a hundred more like him just by whistling if she chose. Then a spiteful idea to get back at Arrow popped into her head. She smiled sneakily.

"We will need a certain amount of stealth as well as strength to penetrate Caelar's fortress," she pointed out. "I happen to know that we have a pair of Harpers in our midst who are used to such activity. Let us take Khalid and Jaheira." Viconia added, but only in her head, _'then if we fail, I will have the final comfort of knowing that everyone the brat loves is dying with me!'_

Freya thought this was an excellent idea. She was much more enthusiastic about this than the prospect of Rasaad's help in dealing with Dorn. The monk seemed to think that they were going to drive him away, whereas Freya intended to kill him.

The last member of their party was Minsc. Dynaheir refused point blank to help as long as Freya continued to harbour Viconia, but her protector had been deprived of evil booty kicking for so long. It seemed crueller than thumping a puppy to make him stand back and watch as someone else had all the fun. Like a small boy forced to watch a birthday party to which he was not invited. The Rashemen hesitated to leave his witch but she reassured him that Dorn would make a fine temporary bodyguard. That, and the army would not advance until he returned, so she was quite safe anyway.

As they set out, just the six of them against the entire Crusade, Freya felt a metal glove close on her shoulder. The Corporal handed her a flare, like a firework, that the Duke wanted them to release so they'd know that the trebuchets were down.

"I know we've had our differences," Bence said gruffly, "But… luck to you.

"That's great," growled Freya. "But for my part, Bence, I'm kinda hoping you get your head cut off in the battle. No offense."

"Why do I bother?" Bence sighed. "At least take these so that their archers don't turn you into a pin cushion before you even get there."

Freya snarled but Viconia, who was much cleverer and of a more pragmatic mindset, took the invisibility potions that Bence was holding out. Under these they were able to make it down the hill unhindered. The most obvious way in was over the pile of rubble from the hole they had blown in the wall. As they headed toward it, invisible, it struck them as odd that no effort had been made to repair it. The gaping breech in their defences was not even well garrisoned.

"Traps," whispered Rasaad. "Buried under the stones and gravel. By Selune, they are everywhere. Half of the rocks on that pile would explode if you trod on them."

"You see them and yet you cannot disarm them," Viconia observed, not for the first time. "As useless a skill as the man who possesses it."

"We're taking the front door then," said Freya. "Remember, we go in, we take out the trebuchets, light the flare and get the hells out. Get in as close to the gate as you can before you drop the invisibility so that the archers can't get line of sight on you. Now!"

Freya threw off the invisibility, to reveal six-foot-three of golden, muscular werewolf bearing down on the unlucky defenders. The shock of their enemy doing something so suicidally stupid as attacking the main gate without an army caught them utterly by surprise. Two of their mages were down before the swordsmen even registered what was happening. Her twin blades cut through the air with silent precision.

Minsc cracked his broad neck and waded into the melee. He was suffering from severe butt-kicking withdrawal, like a Numbing Potion addict deprived of his fix. Now he made up for lost time, banging one Crusader on the helmet with the flat of his blade so that it rang like a bell. Viconia's eyes were screwed shut, as she called on Shar's aid to strengthen the warriors. Her back pressed into the brickwork, trusting entirely on the others to defend her while she worked.

Rasaad and Khalid guarded Jaheira from attack while she tried to open the gate. The druid summoned tentacle-like vines as thick as a man's arm. They sprung up about the gate and forced holes through the neglected timbers, wrapping about them and constricting them like snakes. Finally the wood splintered with a crunch and Freya was able to kick her way in.

Beyond the gate they were met with a wall of white. Their targets were immediately obvious, each stood at eighty feet tall and there were three of them. Why Caelar had needed Slug and his friends was clear. Only teams of ogres were capable of loading the stones and tensing the crude wooden contraptions. What Freya would not have given to have Edwin and Baeloth with her still. A quick fireball thrown from a distance and the burning damage would render them useless. Even Arowan, with her fire arrows, might have been enough to burn through the ropes.

As it was they had fire, but would need to get closer to use it. Jaheira unleased a wave of confusion by summoning hobgoblins directly into the crowds of Crusaders. The beasts were not sufficient to do damage in their own right but it sewed chaos. Many of Caelar's human followers, unhappy at the presence of hobgoblins among them in the first place, assumed that they had been betrayed. They began to attack not only Jaheira's hobgoblins but their own allies as well. The Crusader hobgoblins, incensed, responded in kind and soon a miniature civil war had erupted in the ranks of the Shining Lady.

It provided the breathing room Freya's party needed to hack and slash their way to the first trebuchet. Viconia summoned her flaming sword and thrust it deep into the timber. The slave masters controlling the ogres rushed to put it out but they were mechanics not wizards, and could not extinguish the blade. With no way to quell the source of the fire, they could not contain the blaze and it took hold. Savage flames raced up the arm, leaping and dancing above the battlements. In the distance the party could just hear the cheering of the Flaming Fist.

There were two to go, but now they had some help in addition to the enraged, betrayed hobgoblins. The ogres manning the trebuchets were, it seemed, about as happy to be part of the Crusade as old Slug had been. Presented with this opportunity, they were turning on their slave masters and crushing them under the very rocks that had been meant for the Fist.

Rasaad now had a chance to test how much the power of Selune had grown in him since the defeat of the dragon. His legs, though scarred, were fully functional again. He weaved between defenders to the second trebuchet, diving under sword arms and dodging the thrust of shields. He reached the siege weapon before his party and thrust flaming fists into its heart. A sword nicked him in the small of the back before the fire caught, causing him to grunt in pain. There was no time to tend his wound however. As soon as the contraption was smouldering without him, he turned back to defend the patch, high kicking crusaders and keeping them at bay until the fire was too established to put out.

By now his party had caught up and there was only one trebuchet to go. Yet it was also clear to the defenders what they were doing. They gathered around the remaining instrument like bees defending their queen. Even with the distraction of the hobgoblins and the ogres there was no way to reach it. Worse, it was guarded by some sort of celestial being. An angelic winged creature with furious glowing eyes landed by the base and slashed its own flaming sword threateningly.

"Bollocks!" growled Freya. "Once again Selune opens her divine bowels upon my head. Now what do we do?"

"Th- Th- The beam!" cried Khalid, pointing at the first trebuchet which was a roaring pole of fire, sending billowing smoke into the cloudless sky. The weather was fiercely, relentlessly hot, with only a gentle breeze to encourage the fire to climb the dry hot timber.

"I reckon we got that one Khalid," Freya said squinting at it.

"My husband means tip it over" instructed Jaheira. "We cannot reach the last trebuchet but we can knock this one into it."

"It's a good idea but that's a bit heavy even for me," admitted Freya. "We'll need the ogres. Jaheira, can you charm them?"

"I can try," replied the druid, focussing her energies. "How about a blast of that charisma of yours?"

"Doesn't seem to work on ogres," said Freya regretfully. "Didn't work on Slug. Wait, hang on! Einer? Einer is that you? Good to see you buddy, I thought that cave in would have got you for sure!"

Einer was not pleased to see her or Viconia. The ogre had made it out of the collapsing caverns but only just. His arm was in a vast sling, and with the other he wielded a sapling as a crutch. His entire body seemed to be one enormous bruise with the odd patch of skin poking through. Freya winced, guiltily. He had obviously survived being buried alive in the explosion and he seemed to know exactly who to blame for it.

Jaheira was having better luck with her ogres. The charmed monoliths braced themselves against the burning trebuchet and heaved, Minsc rushing in to assist. Boo helpfully skittered onto his knuckles and pushed the base of the trebuchet with his tiny paws.

"Einer smush stupid werewolves!" the ogre grunted, imagining that the others were Freya's pack. He swung his tree-crutch at Khalid. One of the lower branches cut deep into his leg, and as the sapling continued its arc, ripped out a chunk of flesh. Rasaad leapt forward and began to punch the ogre's legs with his burning fists. This was no more irritating to the ogre than stubbing out a cigarette, for his legs were numb from bruising. Einer plucked Khalid into the air and tightened his fist about him. Khalid's face broke in a silent scream. No sound came out because the ogre had squeezed all the air from his lungs, but there was a crack of bones breaking.

"Look down!" Rasaad cried. Einer turned his ugly head to his feet and blinked stupidly. Then he howled and dropped Khalid. The monk had used a decidedly dishonourable tactic, but it was the only way to prevent his fellow Calishite from being crushed to death. He had grabbed the ogre's loincloth with his flaming hands and set it ablaze. If Einer wished to save the dangling treasures it concealed he had no choice but to withdraw from the battle to try to put it out. Withdraw he did, and hastily.

There was an enormous creaking groan and the burning trebuchet finally toppled into its neighbours. Rasaad dragged Khalid out of its path and the Crusaders scattered like whitefly. Even though the fire did not catch the third trebuchet as they had planned it did not matter. The heavy falling beam crushed the platform it stood on, and the device keeled over, useless.

Freya grinned and released the flare to let the Flaming Fist know they were successful and were on their way back. It whistled into the air and burst in a vibrant shower of sparks. A rapturous cheer came from their own forces. Duke Silvershield watched the sky, the red and purple light of the explosion reflecting in his narrowed eyes. Arrow's face shone with relief for her parents and Rasaad, though they were not out of danger yet. Even Captain Corwin could not supress a smile, and Skie was smirking superiorly at her father.

Duke Silvershield rode out in silence, bringing the catapults within range of the edge of the wall as planned. The soldiers cheered on, awaiting the return of their Hero. Then the Duke's voice, high and cold, echoed over their own.

"FIRE!"

Silence swept the Fist army and the colour drained from the three women's faces. Arrow felt paralysis grip her body and at the same moment, Dorn broke away from the front line and came sprinting toward the archers. She tried to struggle or scream in protest but she couldn't. Dynaheir, in an attempt to save the ranger's life, had cast a spell on her to keep her from the Duke.

"Can't have you hurting him Little Lamb," Dorn whispered, picking her up and carrying her discretely across the battlefield. "My patron will be most disappointed if you hang for treason."

"Father, no!" screamed Skie, for it was clear now that by opening fire before the party returned, he intended to kill Freya along with the Crusaders.

"Corporal Duncan," the Duke said icily, "Remove my daughter from the battlefield. Captain Corwin, you will fire the catapults and you will do it now. Unless you trust the Hero to raise your daughter for you after I execute you for mutiny. Launch the catapults Captain, that's an order!"

"Father won't live forever, Corwin!" screamed Skie, as Bence looped his arms under hers and dragged her away. "You do this and I swear by all the gods I'll see you pay for it. If you don't die on his orders today, you'll die on mine tomorrow!"

"Rohma won't need me as much tomorrow," Corwin whispered, white faced. "FIRE!"

Freya's party heard nothing of this. They were fighting their way back to the gates against hordes of Crusaders. Khalid was wrapped about Minsc's broad neck like a cloak. Every jolt was causing him more pain but neither Viconia nor Jaheira could pause fighting long enough to heal him. His head was flopping in exhaustion and even breathing hurt his snapped ribcage.

As they neared the wall, there were screams from the ramparts. Both they and the defenders turned their heads upward. Sailing over the battlements came a trio of vast boulders, burning with magical energy. They flew over their heads with an evil whistle, struck the ground behind and rolled onward, crushing the Crusaders in their path and leaving trails of fire. There was a sound like thunder and the wall shook as a fourth struck it on the outside. Another was flung into the top of a turret, sending the archers flying in a rain of falling stone.

The party had no choice but to fight on toward the wall. As they neared it, it was struck close to them. A rain of choking grey dust enveloped them, so that they were caught in an unbreathable cloud. Freya pulled her shirt out from under her armour to cover her nose, and the others followed suit. Minsc propped Khalid up against the wall and did his for him, before tucking Boo into the safety of his pants. There was a loud bang and more panicked yelling as another boulder landed.

"What are they doing?" screamed Jaheira, hunkering down behind the wall, her arms shielding her head.

"I don't know, they were supposed to wait for us!" Freya shouted back.

"D- d- damn it, not again!" coughed Khalid, his face turning red with rage. "This is Bridgefort all over again. Remind me never to trust the Flaming Fist!"

Panic had gripped the Crusaders. Faced with this rain of hell, Freya and her cowering fellows were the least of their worries. Without their trebuchets they had no way to defend themselves against the catapults, save to open the gates and charge. It allowed Jaheira and Viconia a moment's peace to heal Khalid and the warrior was soon brushing himself down and wincing.

"Corwin?" Freya whispered in disbelief, lines crisscrossing her face as the scorching missiles hurtled over the wall. "After everything we've been through, Schael Corwin is trying to kill me?"

The dust began to settle and she looked about the courtyard. The hobgoblins' bodies lay scattered around and the ogres were fleeing. The only Crusaders left were a few bewildered, limping, injured and a handful of archers shooting from the battlements. Freya stood up unsteadily. This was all so familiar, only last time it had been demon bodies beyond count, piled so thick you could swim in them. She drew Sarevok's sword. There was no sign of Caelar but her eyes were drawn to the portal gates that their explosives had exposed. She knew the Shining Lady would be there.

"That evil c-" Freya said in a low voice, her words conveniently cut off by another searing blast of heat and noise.

"Caelar?" Viconia asked archly, "Or Corwin?"

"Pick one," growled Freya, and led her recovered party up the steps to the battlements to take out the archers. They made easy pickings. Their arrows clattered off of her dragonscale armour, Viconia's spells seeing off the strays that made it through. She combed the edge of the battlements, hurling the archers from it one by one. Then the six of them returned to the gatehouse and crouched down, peering out to watch the battle.

"Can you s- see Arrow?" worried Khalid.

"No, she will be at the back with the other archers, but where is my witch?" wailed Minsc.

"Where's Corwin?" asked Freya, darkly.

Though the Crusaders had no hope, they were determined not to surrender and the battle dragged on for hours. From this distance it was impossible to make out much in the chaos, other than that the Fist were winning. At length, the last of the defenders fell and the Flaming Fist reformed ranks and marched toward the castle itself. Yet despite the victory there was no cheering. The Duke took the lead on his charger, flanked by Bence and Corwin. Skie was riding behind the Corporal now that the immediate danger had passed. The army was smaller now, and a lot of red uniforms lay on the battlefield behind them.

A few scouts went ahead into the castle, just to check that there was not a Crusader ambush awaiting them. The first two were blown to pieces trying to cross the booby-trapped rubble. The others took the main door instead, trembling from having just seen their fellows' fates. They crept into the corpse strewn courtyard. Then they looked up, saw Freya and their faces split into delighted surprise, but the Hero glared at them and pressed her finger to her lips. They saluted and nodded, then went to inform the Duke that his way was clear.

As he led the procession into the castle the booing began. Jeering and hissing from his own men followed him. Though he kept his pointed face fixed firmly forward, he had released his horse's reins with one hand and was twirling his goatee in agitation.

"I could have fixed all of this Daddy," Skie spat, from Bence's horse. "If you had just listened to me! Now it's too late."

"How?" sneered the Duke. "How was my _genius_ daughter going to solve all our problems?"

"By mar-" Skie began, but she broke off. They were halfway across the courtyard, the ranks of the Flaming Fist fanning out behind them, when people stopped booing. The officers were pointing upward excitedly.

"Well I'll be damned," muttered Bence.

Freya had removed her helmet and was glaring down at them from atop the gatehouse; tall, magnificent and very much alive. Her hair shone in the sun with a dazzling brilliance, blowing about her handsome face. In her right hand she carried Sarevok's sword and as she raised it above her head the army forgot that they were supposed to be professional soldiers and started screaming their Hero's name.

"The Bitch of Baldur's Gate!" someone shouted, and others took up the call until the air vibrated with their chanting. Freya grinned and leaped down from the battlements, landing sword in hand. It took some time to make her way to the Duke. Everyone wanted to pat, shake hands with and touch the demigod. Behind them, her party scrambled down searching frantically for any sign of Arrow and Dynaheir, but nobody paid them any attention.

"My Lord. Captain." Freya said, with a sarcastic salute at each of them.

"Freya!" Corwin cried in relief. She smiled. "You're alive!"

"Surprised?" growled Freya, her face like stone. Corwin's smile faded and a frightened look replaced it. Silvershield looked as though he was about to vomit. "My Lord, the plan was that you were to wait for me to come back before unleashing the catapults. Funny, it seemed to have slipped your mind."

The Flaming Fist waited with vindictive silence for his reply. The Duke gave a sort of strangled grunt.

"They could have warned us about the traps if you'd waited for them," pointed out one of the scouts with a reproachful wave at her comrades' scattered viscera.

"Shall we string him up for you, Sir?" one soldier had the balls to call out. For a moment a nasty smile played on Freya's lips. This sounded to her like an excellent notion. But then Skie gave a pitiful little wail and Freya's stony expression returned.

"Never mind Mi'Lord, these mistakes happen. Memory starts to go with old age," Freya said loudly. "I think, though, that it is time for you to retire to a country estate once we return to the city. One of your more distant ones will do."

"Perhaps…" the Duke began with difficulty, but his voice trailed to silence. He had nothing. Skie buried her face into the back of Bence's cloak, staring into its dark folds with hollow eyes. After so long on the road it smelled rather like the horse shuffling its hooves beneath them, but she did not want anyone to see her face lest it betray her thoughts.

Father wasn't fit to run a cock fight, never mind a city. Freya probably really could make a better go of it. Yet the Bitch of Baldur's Gate was no politician. Daddy's envy of her popularity was as short-sighted as an owner being jealous of people admiring his own dog. The Blue Beard rebels, a bunch of angry peasants, pitched against the charisma of the golden Hero? They would not have stood a chance in the battle for the hearts and minds of Baldur's Gate.

Skie clenched her teeth and gave a silent wail of frustration into Bence's cloak, digging her sharp little nails into his back. She'd had the solution to their problems, everything was under control! All Daddy had to do, for once, was stand back and let her handle it! Scheming and plotting to unseat the Grand Duke from power would never even have occurred to Freya. Yet somehow he had done the impossible. Not only had he cost the Silvershields their best and most loyal weapon, he'd managed to turn her around so that now she was pointing at them!

' _Hold your nerve,'_ Skie told herself, steeling herself for what now had to be done. _'I can still fix this.'_


	44. Hatching Plans

If Duke Silvershield imagined that things could get no worse, he was in for a nasty surprise. Early in the march, after Caelar Argent had blown their first crossing, he had offered a thousand gold pieces to the officer who brought him the head of a Crusader named Jayvis. He had forgotten all about it. His soldiers, unsurprisingly, had not.

One of the reasons that the battle had taken so long, aside from the tenacity of the Crusaders, was that the Fist soldiers were painstakingly checking every kill they made. Whenever one fell, the victor would excitedly remove the helmet before fighting on in the hopes of securing the windfall of a lifetime. The lucky winner was a young lad whom Freya recognized by sight, though for the life of her she could never remember his name. He had been unwillingly drawn into an Iron Throne plot to murder her once, but he was a solid kid who took good care of his old nan, and the Hero was fond of him.

Silvershield was less pleased. He did not have a thousand gold coins. In fact there was a looming issue surrounding how the Flaming Fist's regular wages were to be paid after the war, never mind extravagant bonuses. He'd hoped that Caelar's stronghold might yield enough wealth to cover it but this was looking unlikely. The more expensive weapons and armour from their vanquished foes had been piled up around the catapults. They were joined (distastefully) by the body of the Crusader's winged leader, whose feathers and other parts could be sold to the city's more disreputable magical practitioners. It was not a worthy thing to do, but the honour the Duke had shown when he wanted to sacrifice his men at Bridgefort, instead of following Skie's plan, had evaporated. It seemed rather less critical when the life hanging in the balance was not some common soldier's but his own.

"That is not Jayvis," he tried to claim, when the boy proudly presented the severed head to him. This met with ever more hostile jeering from his own soldiers. They no longer feared their leader, not even a little, and had no qualms about openly displaying their contempt.

"Yes it is!" roared Freya, seizing Jayvis by the hair and raising his dripping, gawping mug so that everyone could see. There was no doubt about it. The mage's darting, deranged eyes were forever stilled but he sported the same beard, nose and stretched features of a man whose life had been magically extended. "The lad found him fair and square. Pay up you tight bastard!"

"I do not carry such fortunes on me!" Duke Silvershield puffed, truthfully this time. At least he did not anymore. There was a time when he would go to the markets and spend such sums on little treats for Skie on the merest whim. These days his debts were so high he would struggle to secure the sum even on credit. "We will settle the matter when we return to Baldur's Gate."

He strode away, and the young officer dropped the head with a defeated expression.

"He's not going to pay up, is he?" he sighed to Freya resignedly. "You know, I could have bought a nice little townhouse with that. With enough left over to set up a trade of my own when I've served my time with the Fist. Wouldn't have had to send half my wages to our greedy parasite of a landlord no more." A worried expression set in. "Is he even going to pay us our wages Sir?"

"Doubt it. From what Coran's been writing I don't think he's even been paying the Fists who guard his own estate," shrugged Freya. She pulled out a gem from her pack. "Here, take this for Jayvis's head. Men with opinions like his are a threat to my heirs too if I ever have any, after all."

"Sir, is this a rogue stone?" gasped the boy, staring into the swirling, iridescent colours. He had never seen anything like it, but he had heard them described in storybooks. Freya nodded. He clasped the treasure tight to his chest. It was worth far more than a thousand gold pieces. Normally he would be afraid to carry such an item, but none of his fellows would dare try to take it from him knowing it was a gift from the Hero of Baldur's Gate. They were well acquainted with the Sergeant's sense of smell by this point, and the werewolf was certain to track it back to the culprit. "Thank you, Sir." He spluttered with an awkward salute.

Freya nodded, her grim expression returning as she turned her attention back in the direction of the portal. She would take the adventurers only, she decided. Neither the things that could come screeching from Avernus nor Caelar herself were something these exhausted foot soldiers should have to deal with. The two parties were gravitating toward her on their own. Most of them, anyway. There was no sign of Rasaad or Arrow, but since the Harpers were not searching frantically for their daughter it could be assumed that she'd been accounted for.

"Great fun!" Minsc beamed, joyfully.

"It's not over yet," promised Freya in a gravelly voice.

"Now what?" drawled Viconia.

"N- now we end this," Khalid said firmly, casting his eyes up to the portal. Jaheira smiled at him fondly. For all his bravery, she knew her husband would much rather not go up there and she loved him for doing so anyway.

"We should rest first," she suggested. "It has been a long day and Caelar has nowhere to go. Let her stay holed up in there overnight and we can face her in the morning."

Khalid near-drooped with relief and pulled off his helmet. His hair stayed in the shape of the metal which had grown so hot in the sun he'd felt like his brain was being slow-cooked. With a groan, he uncorked his water flask, took a long swig, then poured the rest over his ginger head. The tents and bedrolls had been left behind in the Fist camp, but it was so roasting that nobody would have used them anyway. Watches were set and the adventurers lay down in whatever bales of straw or bundles of Crusader bedding they could find. Around them the soldiers, content that they would not have to deal with Caelar themselves, began hauling away the corpses.

"I cannot respect a warrior who would let the Duke's crimes against you go unpunished," Dorn growled at Freya. Dynaheir was hovering beside him, looking down her nose at the Hero with barely concealed contempt.

"I cannot respect a warrior who uses his own armpits as a ranged weapon," retorted Freya with a bark of laughter. She took a long draught from her private waterskin. Her brush with sobriety had not lasted long. "Seriously though, fuck off. I'm not in the mood."

"I need to speak with thee Freya. Alone." Dynaheir said seriously. Freya got slowly to her feet, still laughing, and followed the witch a short distance away from the others.

"Dynaheir I thought you'd never ask," Freya grinned, swigging her ale. "Just as long as you've bathed since the last time you got it on with Dorn, because if it tastes anything like it smells…" The Rashemen's hand closed suddenly around her wrist and the witch's dark eyes flashed.

"This is no time for your foolish jokes!" Dynaheir snapped angrily. "Thou d'ost realise that when Duke Silvershield falls it is thou the people will ask to replace him? I am growing concerned Freya, with things thou hast done and others thou hast allowed. There is a line twixt good and evil, and thou art perilously close to crossing it."

"I… see." Freya said testily.

"There is a darkness in thee!" insisted the Rashemen. "Thou must be ever watchful or sure as night follows day it will consume thee as it has thy friend Viconia. I would not see this happen, but ultimately thou art the only one who can prevent it."

"There's a darkness in everyone Dynaheir," growled Freya, her grey eyes narrowing wolfishly. "The only difference between them and us is that we don't have the option of hiding it, but trust me it's there. People like us get to see the darkness in others more often than you do."

"I do not doubt it," sighed Dynaheir. "Which is why, in spite of everything thou hast done of late, I still consider thou mine friend. Tell me, does 'us' mean thyself and Viconia now? It used to be me and Minsc and Coran, or hast thou forgotten that? The world has not changed since those days, but thou hast! Thou used to look for the best in people, but Viconia makes thee see the worst!"

"Everywhere I go people judge me for what I am," replied Freya bitterly. She could not quite meet Dynaheir's eyes. "You will never really understand what that is like. Viconia does."

She rose wearily and the pair of them headed back to the others who were sitting or lying down in various stages of drowsiness. They were discussing the portal and whether or not Caelar was likely to succeed in opening it.

"It strikes me," said Skie, taking down her bun, "That since she needs Bhaalspawn blood to open her portal, the sensible course of action would be for the rest of us to go without Arrow and Freya."

"In Arowan's case I agree," snapped Corwin. "Leaving Freya could get us all killed. Caelar is part aasimar. She may have lost the war but she won't go down easily."

"Without their blood Caelar is nothing but a broken fugitive. We can starve her out if we need to," Skie argued, but they were distracted as a long shadow fell across Captain Corwin. Freya was standing over her, a storm brewing in her grey eyes. Her lip was curling, bearing her teeth in a very wolf-like way.

"On the subject of getting us all killed," she growled, "I'm bloody interested to hear what you've got to say?"

Corwin opened her mouth to answer, but Skie got in there first.

"Father ordered her to fire, I ordered her not to. She unleashed the catapults on you anyway," the young aristocrat said. She glared at Corwin, such a cold, calculating glare that the Captain paled a little. She had shared Duke Silvershield's wish that Skie would grow up. It was dawning on her now how misguided that goal might have been. Skie had indeed grown up, into a dangerous rattlesnake. "Remember what I told you would happen if you disobeyed my command? It was not an empty threat."

"I'm sorry!" Corwin muttered, appealing directly to Freya. "He would have done it anyway and I had to think of Rohma! You don't seriously expect me to die for you, do you?"

Freya faltered, hurt and unsure how to respond. She caught Viconia's eye. The drow grimaced and shrugged as if to say; 'see?' The Hero's expression hardened. Though she'd survived the battle there was a defeated look in her eyes.

"I expect nothing from you people," Freya replied, with a bitter finality.

"Freya?" Corwin began pleadingly. "I…"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to fire you or have you executed. So long as you keep out of my way," she growled, "But you and me are through. Now clear off. I imagine your master the Duke is pretty upset, why don't you go and comfort him?"

The sneer in her voice and what it implied was enough for Corwin. Her feelings for Freya had long fluctuated between love and hate. Now they were leaning heavily in the direction of hate. She stormed away, walking quickly so that Freya wouldn't see her tearing up. The werewolf did not cry, but simply lay on her arm in the dirt, staring at nothing.

Skie got up to go after Corwin. Viconia gave her an almost-respectful nod of acknowledgement as she went. The drow was starting to guess what Skie was up to, and she rather approved. Of course if she was correct then she herself would have to tread very lightly. She had a fine line to walk now between securing her own position and ensuring that the noblewoman did not perceive her as competition.

"Are you alright?" asked Viconia scooting next to Freya.

"Fine," muttered Freya. She sat up glumly, picked up a small piece of mortar and tossed it into the rubble, causing a mini-avalanche of pebbles to cascade over Dorn. She snorted with amusement as the half-orc sat bolt upright, swatting at the rocks in his sleepy confusion. Freya jerked her head over at Rasaad who was curled up protectively around Arrow. The missing pair had been found kissing passionately behind one of the broken trebuchets. Each had been afraid that the other might not have survived the battle and had been lip-locked for hours. "How about you Viconia, are you alright?"

"I…" Viconia's knee-jerk response was to deny that she had anything not to be alright about, but why bother? In so far as she had ever trusted another woman in her life, she trusted Freya. With Edwin and Baeloth gone, she was the closest thing she had to a friend. "I'll survive," Viconia said stiffly, "I never expected better from a human male. Like you said; freaks and monsters don't get happy endings."

"No," agreed Freya heavily. "We don't."

Freya settled to rest, stewing over her almost-but-not-quite affair with Corwin long into the night. Skie, meanwhile, was busy hammering the last nail into the coffin. Using her light-footed stealth, she slipped up behind Corwin who had found a quiet spot just outside the castle walls. She waited in the shadows with a twisted smile on her face. At length, to her satisfaction, Corwin buried her face into her hands and began to cry in earnest.

"What a shame," Skie purred quietly, slipping out of her hiding place. The Captain sat bolt upright, her fists tightening with fury. Skie smiled at her condescendingly. "I thought you would have made a fine couple. The Bitch of Baldur's Gate… and the Butch of Baldur's Gate."

"Go to hell!" hissed Corwin, between gritted teeth.

"That's probably your only hope now," Skie smiled sweetly, her voice oozing false pity.

"You don't have the power to do shit, Skie!" Corwin snapped. "The Silvershields are finished. If I were you I'd get on with that arranged marriage in Amn. I hear your groom to be has a daughter your age so at least you'll have a friend."

"We'll see," sneered Skie. "It's probably just as well, you'd only have got your heart broken again. Freya seemed to think you'd be a pretty easy lay after Beno told us all about you… but I didn't get the impression that she planned on sticking around. She and Coran are best mates for a reason. Birds of a feather flock together, as the saying goes."

Corwin looked as though she had been punched in the gut. It was a lie, of course. If Eldoth had not been enough to put Freya off Skie, then she was certainly not about to be swayed by Beno. Yet for Corwin the way she felt judged for her single-motherhood had never lost its sting. Skie saw this weakness and struck like a snake, injecting poison between the two women. She left Corwin alone, satisfied with her handiwork. There was always the danger that Freya might find out eventually, but for Skie's scheme to work the deception would not have to hold up for long.

Morning came and the adventurers were still in two minds over what to do about Caelar. The Duke, of course, was no longer involved in these discussions but Corwin still represented the Fist and was with them, albeit quietly. Freya was their strongest warrior and she was most reluctant after all this effort to let someone else have the fun of finishing off the big boss. On the other hand, there was an undeniable logic to Skie's argument. If no Bhaalspawn went near Caelar's hell-portal then there was no way the Shining Lady could open it. The question hinged around whether the others would be able to take a part-aasimar without Freya. This was difficult to gauge since they had never actually fought Caelar directly.

"You do have… Dorn? Sod off!" Freya said casually. The Blackguard made a rumbling growl in the back of his throat, but complied with Dynaheir's encouragement. The Hero watched him lumber away, then leaned forward, lowering her voice. "You do have the Servant of all Faiths."

"Does being the Chosen One grant her any powers that might help in this situation?" Jaheira asked imperiously, addressing her question mainly to Dynaheir. "Or any powers at all _?_ "

"She's really good at not dying," Freya volunteered helpfully.

"The prophecies spoke nothing of that," said Dynaheir. "Hast thou noticed any unexplained skills or gifts Viconia?"

"She has a gift for being a spiteful, provocative nuisance," observed Arrow coldly. "But I assume you meant _useful_ powers?"

"No." Viconia said, fixing her eyes on Arrow with undisguised hostility. "Shar grants me the same powers as she does to all her clerics. Perhaps in greater abundance than usual for my length of service to her."

"The part about serving 'All Faiths' may be significant," said Rasaad. "If both good and evil deities align then it suggests that the power you are destined to vanquish is something entirely outside of the gods' remit. I cannot think what that could be, except perhaps a demon."

"Caelar isn't a d- d- demon," Khalid pointed out. "We're t- trying to avoid the demons. Otherwise we'd take F- F- Freya."

"Hephernaan might be a demon," Arrow pointed out, remembering his reptilian black eyes boring into her.

"Could be," nodded Freya. "He doesn't smell right."

"Like Irenicus?" asked Jaheira.

"No. Hephernaan doesn't smell like anything at all," Freya replied grimly, fingering Sarevok's sword. "I didn't register it at the time, but now I come to think of it, it's damned unnatural. Nobody smells like nothing. Either way, Arrow makes a good point. It's not just Caelar up there. Hephernaan will be there and perhaps more of her followers besides."

"Caelar is planning to open the gates to Avernus," said Dynaheir thoughtfully. "And thou art here Viconia. Tis not outside the realms of possibility that thou art destined to slay a demon lord."

"Like the Treehugger says, we are trying to avoid the demons," Viconia said hastily, pointing at Khalid. Lolth had promised, in no uncertain terms, to come after her once the prophecy was fulfilled. It made the Chosen One inclined to delay her day of destiny. Forever if possible.

"Then we're decided," said Skie. "Freya and Arrow will stay here. The rest of us will go and finish Caelar."

"And I- Imoen will have to stay too of course," Khalid remembered. He looked about frowning. "Where is Imoen? H- has anyone seen her?"

"She always avoids you and Mum for… er… obvious reasons," said Arrow with a wince. "So I'm not surprised she's not here. The last time I saw her she was eating a sandwich. Loudly. That was last night, has anybody seen her since?"

"Is she dead?" Freya asked in alarm, her head jerking toward yesterday's battlefield.

"No, our people's bodies were sent back for burial in Baldur's Gate already," said Corwin with certainty. "We don't want to keep them hanging around in this heat. Imoen wasn't among the fallen. She has bright pink hair, it's not like they're likely to have missed her."

"Then where the hells is she?" barked Freya, springing to her feet. The adventurers all slowly turned their heads in the direction of the portal room. The gates had been exposed by the explosives they planted in the caves and, while they had been talking, somebody had opened them.

Right on cue, a piercing scream reverberated from above, coupled with mad laughter that Arrow was pretty sure belonged to Hephernaan. Their plan to avoid opening the portal was shot. They had a third Bhaalspawn and, like Irenicus, Hephernaan had figured it out. The demon Ur-Gothoz, Arrow recalled, had recognized her for what she was the instant he caught a glimpse of her through Dorn's blade. So perhaps Hephernaan had known about Imoen all along. Freya pulled out her twin bastards, twirled them, but seemed to reconsider and sheathed them behind her back. Then with grim determination she pulled out Sarevok's sword instead.

Above their heads the portal gates flashed with brilliant blue-white light, before dimming into a smouldering orange red. A stench like rotting eggs poured down from above and with a piercing cackle of glee something winged and twisted shot out of the gates and into the sky. Before she pelted up the skeletal dragon's ivory carcass, the Hero of Baldur's Gate had only one thing to say by way of a rallying cry.

"Ah, crap."


	45. Avernus

They found Imoen running the other way to escape the demonic creatures scuttling from the portal. Blood gushed from her arm but Freya barely registered her presence. The closer she drew to the gate to Avernus, the more the line between herself and Bhaal was blurring. Past and present were melding in her head, until she was unsure whether it was Khalid carrying the sword and shield beside her or the old Duke. Skie's dagger plunged into the mouth of an eyeless fleshy blob inching like a slug from the portal.

"Nice one Maire!" cried Freya.

Her companions stared at one another in panic. This was no time for the Hero of Baldur's Gate to lose her mind. Not with Caelar gone and the gate to hell flung wide open. None of them were under any illusions that they could close it again without Freya. They looked to Arowan, as the other Bhaalspawn, but she was just as confused as they were.

"The hells is happening to you?" yelled Arrow. The Hero ignored her, lost in both the real battle around her and the long-won one repeating in her head. Her sister grabbed her sword arm and yanked back hard to get her attention. "Freya!"

"Can't you see them?" Freya asked desperately. She spun back, her hair a tangle of golden chaos around her head. She seized Arrow's shoulder and pointed her in the direction of the demon bones. They were still there, welded to a surviving patch of wall by Silvershield's buckler. "Look at that! Can't you remember how that happened?"

It did look strangely familiar. Arrow possessed less of Bhaal's essence than Freya. Though neither sister knew it, she had been the younger of the two. The werewolf had been conceived by a Bhaal in his prime, the daughter of one of his most favoured priestesses. Arowan had been one of the very last, when their father was nearly drained from siring his brood and close to death. An afterthought from an ill-advised fling with the temple chef's apprentice. She did not remember as clearly as Freya, but if she squinted at the demon and really concentrated…

…

**1356\. Dragonspear Castle.**

" _Isn't there some way we could close it permanently?" Duke Silvershield pondered, stroking his beard. The mages shook their heads grimly. His face was dripping with sweat and he was beyond exhausted, but he and Maire had survived. So had Bhaal, for now at least._

" _It can only be closed from the other side. We can disable it temporarily, but it will remain a threat. It is likely that at some point the demons will find a way to activate it again."_

" _Then I will close it myself," the Duke said stoically._

" _Are you familiar with the term martyr complex?" a dying Bhaal coughed with a grin. It was a jibe that Freya had once used on Arrow. They even wore the same expression when they said it. All that the ranger could remember was lying on a pile of demon corpses as Bhaal, while his blood slipped away, watching the faces of the disapproving wizards with an irreverent expression. Freya remembered it all._

" _I'm afraid you lack the power my Lord," replied one of the wizards. He peered at Bhaal from under bushy brows. "It would require an arcane wielder of extraordinary power."_

" _I don't imagine we'll be swamped with volunteers," remarked the Duke grimly._

" _Hey, you in the poncey robes! You look like an arcane wielder to me!" Bhaal interjected. Sticky droplets of blood-tainted phlegm flew from his mouth as he spoke and lodged in his beard, like fairy lights on a black tree. He was too proud to beg the mortals for help, yet subconsciously his attention seeking was a plea; don't leave me to die._

" _Perhaps a volunteer is not essential," the wizard suggested, avoiding the Duke's eyes and adjusting his velvet robes delicately._

" _What do you mean?" asked Maire, looking up at the wizard with wide doe-like eyes._

" _It seems my… 'Lady…' that we have an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone," the wizard remarked, still eyeing up Bhaal. "The Lord of Murder is dying. We could simply toss him through the portal and see what happens. It may be that his blood is enough to destroy it."_

" _Fuck you!" Bhaal barked savagely. He tried to sit up, but the severity of his wounds would not allow it. Three of the demon lords lay dead beneath him. Two had been driven back through the portal to lick their wounds, but it had cost him dearly._

_He had to fight, or at least call for aid from his cultists, but they were still outside. Judging from the screams and clanging of metal the last of the demons had not been mopped up yet. The stone room was spinning as he fought to stay conscious, but even the drive for revenge was not enough to command his broken body. What a stupid way for a god to die. Mortality could suck his divine cock._

" _No!" Silvershield ordered. "If we do this to our own ally, we are no better than he is. Pass the word for the healers."_

_Bhaal raised his head a fraction, and a puzzled look spread over his face. It seemed to Maire as though the god could not quite believe his own ears. But then his head hit the floor with a thump, darkness descended and he heard no more._

…

**Present Day**

"Leave them there's no time!" Bence cried. "Demons could flood this vault any second!"

Arrow turned her mesmerized gaze from the demon skeleton. She had barely registered Freya releasing her shoulders and sprinting for the portal. The Hero was not alone. Arrow caught a glimpse of Viconia's silver hair fanning out behind her as she ran and a man's tattooed calf vanishing behind the door.

"No! Rasaad!" screamed Arrow, launching herself at the entrance to the vault, seconds before the Flaming Fist closed it. Corwin was giving them the orders, because duty compelled her to save the city from these fiends if she could. The ranger forced her way past the guards and into the portal room. The three of them were gone but in the centre of the room the portal was pulsating, a menacing swirl of sickly colour, like a giant oil drop.

Hands were closing on her arms. She tried to wrench herself free, but they were too strong, and she was being dragged backward. Back away from the portal, away from Rasaad, screaming his name one last time before the great stone doors slammed in her face.

"NO!" she howled.

The hands released her and she whipped around, mad with grief and fury at the pair who had held her back. Her mind was reeling from remembering being her remorseless killer of a sire. The point of her arrow found Khalid's throat first, but even in her madness she could not bring herself to slay her own Dad. So she shot Dorn.

The half-orc crumpled as the arrow pierced his stomach. The sight seemed to bring Arrow back to her senses. She stared at him in shocked horror. A shrill little noise escaped her lips. She was a murderer.

Or was she? Dorn was laughing throatily. He grimaced and pulled out the arrow, taking a large gulp of healing potion and pulling himself to his feet.

"Finally, some progress!" he grinned through his tusks. "No Dynaheir. Leave her be. My patron would not permit me to let you harm her in any case."

"You stopped me! How could you?" Arrow screamed at Khalid. "How could you?"

"Your father saved you child!" Jaheira scolded her indignantly. "And not merely your life! After you died down there you would have spent eternity in hell!"

"Rasaad…" she sobbed.

"…is with Freya," Khalid finished for her gently. "Which is the best chance of surviving this that he could possibly have. You are not your sister Arrow. She might escape Avernus, you won't."

Aside from Arrow nobody was keener for Freya to escape Avernus than the werewolf herself. Viconia was paralysed with terror by the anguished screams all around her. Here the souls of the damned suffered for eternity and the drow was struck by a strange urge to help them. She had never thought twice about killing, nor even shied away from torture when the situation called for it. Those pains were temporary though. This was unbearable agony forever. Really forever. Rasaad was staring in horror at the endless oceans of lava, but by far the one having the worst time was Freya. The instant they stepped into this realm of horrors, the smell of sulphur sent her reeling.

It was a noxious odour more overpowering than anything her canine nose had ever encountered. The fumes eclipsed any other scent leaving her nose-blind. It was the nasal equivalent of having floodlights shone directly into her eyes; agonizing and impossible to ignore. She collapsed on the ground, pressing her face into her clothes in an attempt to block it out, but it was no use. Had it not been for Viconia, that might have been the end of Freya before she had even encountered any demons. As it was, the cleric's role in this was to cast Zone of Sweet Air and maintain the spell for the duration of their stay. She would have no opportunity to do anything else, because their leader could not function while the stench persisted.

"Thanks Viconia," muttered Freya, pawing at her nose. "Bugger me! That would have been an embarrassing way to go, killed by a giant fart."

"I have never felt so far from Selune's light," whispered Rasaad. He looked sick and was trembling. A great bubble erupted like a pustule from the lava to his right, briefly taking on the shape of a screaming woman's face before it burst.

"Nor I so far from Shar's shadow," agreed Viconia, for there was no darkness here. The fires of hell illuminated everything with a relentless, evil orange.

"I dunno, I suddenly feel a lot closer to our goddess," remarked Freya. The others stared at her. "Hey, if there was ever an incentive to stay on the right side of Selune and not get dragged to the hot place, this is it. Now let's find Caelar and hope she knows how to close this fucking portal."

Rasaad was shaking violently from head to foot now. Viconia had never seen him so distressed, except perhaps when Gamaz had died. Instinctively she made to put her arms about him and comfort the monk, but Freya got there first. She clapped the monk hard on his inked shoulder and hugged him like a brother.

"Ah look on the bright side Rasaad, I bet there's tons of succubae down here," she grinned. "So if we do get trapped in hell, at least you might finally get laid! How about that, eh?"

Though Freya's vulgar sense of humour was never to his taste, her brash overconfidence restored a little of his own. Rasaad nodded resolutely, jaw set, and the three of them ventured out into the hellscape. He might have been less reassured had he realised where the Hero's confidence came from. For Freya was remembering defeating five demon lords, and here there was only one. She had quite forgotten that she was merely a fraction of a god now, instead of Bhaal himself, and was striding forth with all the arrogance of a deity to meet Belhifet.

… **.**

**1356\. Dragonspear Castle.**

" _It's been ages," whispered Maire. She was pressing Bhaal's wounds with a rag to try and stem the flow of blood, as he drifted in and out of consciousness. "Why haven't they come back?"_

" _WHERE IS HE?" a woman thundered. Bhaal's heart sank. Did the last thing he ever heard really have to be the voice of this screeching harpy?_

" _Amelyssan," he groaned._

_A tall woman entered the room. Very tall, with a long nose and rather gangly like a plant grown in the dark. She had straw coloured hair and pale grey eyes which were slightly lopsided. Her armour had been hammered out to accommodate a growing bump. None of these features rendered her any less intimidating. She was adorned with the symbol of Bhaal and her angry face was painted with blood, not all of it demonic. In her hand she carried a long staff ending in a mace head, and when she saw Bhaal, she jabbed him hard in the ribs._

" _There you are!" she snapped in that annoying, grating tone of hers. Bhaal had half a mind, if he ever ascended again, to transform her into a basilisk or a great serpent before allowing her into his kingdom. Or a caterpillar. Anything that couldn't speak would do. Eternity with that voice was a fate that not even the Lord of Murder felt he deserved. "You almost got yourself killed before it's time. Drink this!"_

_He choked and spluttered as the leader of his armies forced potion after potion down his throat. His wounds healed, but his mouth ached so badly afterward that he feared she might've knocked his teeth out in the process._

" _Madele?" he croaked hopefully._

" _Yes, yes, I'll go and fetch her," Amelyssan snapped impatiently and stormed out as rapidly as she had come._

" _What sort of priestess speaks to her own god like that?" frowned Silvershield, puzzled._

" _A bloody effective one," groaned Bhaal, standing up. He picked up his sword, ready to show Silvershield's wizards what he thought of their plan to let him bleed to death in Avernus, but they had gone. He turned to Silvershield. "You spared my life. Why?"_

" _Honour. If you had any, Lord of Murder, you would not need to ask why I did not throw my own ally into hell just to save my own skin!"_

" _So, you're an idiot then," grunted Bhaal. He shrugged. "Figures."_

_Duke Silvershield looked helplessly at Maire. The truth was, he was far from convinced that he wasn't being an idiot. It was not every day that a mortal man got an opportunity to destroy the Lord of Murder. Add to that the chance to close the portal permanently, and perhaps the god had a point. Her eyes met his and she smiled encouragingly. The Duke's chest swelled and he felt a little better. All healthy young men of a certain age had been drafted to fight this war but there had been some debate as to whether Maire, or 'Marc' as he had heard some of the soldiers call her, ought to be included._

_The case had been brought before the Grand Duke who had felt obligated to uphold the letter of the law. Yet he could not entertain the idea of throwing the beautiful doe-eyed bard into the rank and file. At best she would have been beaten up, at worst… So the Duke had conscripted her as his personal attendant, which was a fitting role for a bard, and over the course of the war he had grown deeply attached._

_Bhaal was looking at Maire too, in an appraising sort of way._

" _You know he's an idiot, right?" Bhaal asked. He looked the bard up and down before adding brazenly, "You could do a lot better."_

" _If he is an idiot then so are you," Maire replied defensively. "You came here to fight alongside us didn't you? Why?"_

" _I'm a god of murder. There were a lot of things here to murder," said Bhaal flatly._

" _I don't believe you!" she said. She was glaring directly at Bhaal, and he had never met a mortal with such intense eyes. With the exception of Amelyssan and, from time to time Madele, even Bhaal's own followers avoided making eye-contact. In much the same way as one wouldn't attempt to stare down a silverback. Besides which, even in their diminished mortal form, the gods retained the power to look into human souls if they really concentrated. On this occasion Bhaal did, and immediately wished he hadn't. His own mortal life, before he became a god, had been one of unrelenting violence. He had been born into it, raised in it and had never known any different. A brutal man from a brutal time._

_Yet despite being uncomfortable, his life had retained a certain dignity. Maire's had not. She was a beautiful young bard, but poor and in no position to turn down wealthy patrons if she ever wanted to work again. It would be nice to think that her troubles were over now that she had met the Duke, who clearly adored her, but they weren't. They wouldn't be left alone. The same nobles she had performed for before hadn't gone anywhere, and they would continue to dog her steps and sneer at her. If she let the Duke take care of her, it would ruin his reputation too. Despite knowing what he was seeing, Maire continued to stare at him defiantly, and it was Bhaal who looked away first. She pressed her dagger into his hand and held it to her throat. "If it's really true that all you came here for is death, then end this. Murder me!"_

" _Maire!" cried Silvershield._

" _Put that away before you hurt yourself," said Bhaal grouchily. His grey eyes met her deep brown and he let her see a little of his own life. He wasn't sure why he did it. It wasn't something he had ever done before, but coming so close to death, permanent death, sparked a sense of wanting someone to see him as he actually was and not as his cult had painted him._

_It was hardly exonerating. Yes, when he had travelled with Bane and Myrkul, he had been the one to let the women and children run while their villages burned. Yet he was also the one who'd slaughtered their husbands and fathers. Most of the escapees would have perished within days of exposure and hunger, and deep down he'd known that at the time. He just hadn't cared. It was, without question, a better fate than they'd have suffered had his companions been left to their own devices. When it was time, he'd taken the portfolio of murder, and there his interest in mortals and their affairs had largely ended. His cult had required minimal visions and appearances by him to get going. All he had to do to ensure a steady supply of worshippers was plaster his image over the crimes they were committing anyway. It wasn't as though humans needed his encouragement to butcher each other._

…

**Present Day**

"Over the bridge!" Freya yelled. "We need to fight our way to the tower!"

"What makes you say that?" Rasaad asked, eyeing the tower without enthusiasm. It was obsidian, hundreds of feet tall and carved with giant grotesque faces, each scrunched in rage or pain. Flayed bodies of offending lesser demons hung, twitching from the battlements. There were no windows and yet the whole building seemed to wail from the blended shrieks of those souls unfortunate enough to find themselves within.

"Because it's the only thing down here for miles!" the werewolf yelled. Viconia said nothing, she was panting from the heat and the effort of maintaining her Zone of Sweet Air. It reassured her a little that Shar could still hear her down here to answer her plea for assistance, and a desperate plea it was. The spell was not supposed to endure for long periods but if she dropped it Freya was toast, and so was she.

A few more of the fleshy blobs oozed their way out of the lava to menace them but they were weak, like the feathered rats that accompanied them. There was a flap of wings from behind them and they turned to see the only beautiful thing that the hellscape had to offer. A six foot woman with jet black hair and a chest to rival Freya's. Great bat-like wings sprouted from her back and though her face was beautiful it was cold like marble and her fingers sharp and cruel.

"You reckon that's a succubus?" asked Freya with interest.

"Yes!" Rasaad and Viconia snapped at the same time. For a split second his dark eyes met her red, and each winced and looked away. Long before meeting Freya, when the two of them had still been in a party with Arowan, they had encountered a bored succubus trapped in the Prime. It was not an experience either had any desire to revisit.

"Hypothetically," Freya asked Rasaad, "What would happen if I were to submit to a succubus? I mean would she keep me as a slave or eat me after mating like a wasp?"

The succubus, whose mouth had been contorting in a fearsome war screech blinked and lowered her sword for a moment. She squinted at Freya, not with lust but with mild fascination.

"Do you mean like a mantis?" she asked, cocking her magnificent head to one side. "We've had some stupid adventurers venture down here but you are something else. We don't even have wasps or mantises in hell and even I know acccck!"

Sarevok's sword plunged into the succubus's beautiful throat. The creature keeled forward, pawing at her neck and slipped into the lava lake with a gurgle. Wearing a thunderous expression Freya charged the tower and her companions had to sprint to keep up with her.

As they battled their way over the bridge and to the entrance they saw, waiting for them by the gates, a miniature imp. Its saucer eyes welled up when it saw Freya and it clasped its tiny clawed hands together. Its tail was wagging like a puppy whose owner had come home from work. Unlike everything else they had met down here, for some reason it seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

… **.**

**1356\. Dragonspear Castle.**

" _Why are you here?" Maire repeated angrily. She had not agreed to have her mind violated in that way, but she was damned if she'd feel shame for anything the god saw._

" _I was a barbarian when I met the others, Myrkul and Bane. They were strong, I was strong, so we formed an alliance. They were trying to become gods. I went along with it, but the pair of them were batshit crazy and I wasn't expecting them to succeed, not really," Bhaal said quietly. "Before they were destroyed, my tribe lived by the motto kill as many as you can before someone else kills you. That was how it was back then. Very few humans died of old age. I fought, I killed and I liked killing, so when the time came to divide the god of the dead's portfolio they made me the Lord of Murder."_

" _See, he does just like killing!" spat Silvershield, who was starting to regret not throwing him into Avernus when he'd had the chance._

" _Killing, yes. Torturing, no," Bhaal said sharply. "Mortals live and suffer, and then they die and that should be the end of their misery. Avernus…" The god looked into the portal and shuddered. "I never feared death as a mortal, but I feared hell."_

" _As well you might," muttered Silvershield, darkly._

" _You came here to stop more mortals being pulled into the hells," Maire said, her face softening a little. Both Bhaal and Silvershield found this extremely misguided._

" _Eternity is a long time. I should know," Bhaal muttered. "I have existed unchanging for centuries upon centuries. What is an eternity of agony in the hells minus hundreds and thousands of years? Still eternity. Nobody deserves that. Even I didn't deserve that."_

_He looked at the ground, but to Silvershield's panic, Maire seized his jaw and forced him to look at her._

" _The portal will open again!" she pressed. "And again, and every time it does more people…"_

_Then Duke Silvershield understood what Maire was trying to do and at the same moment so did Bhaal. He rolled his eyes, threw his sword to the ground in frustration and growled so loudly that it shook the walls._

" _You want me to do the 'honourable' thing and close the damned portal don't you?" he groaned._

" _You're a god. You have eternity to fight your way out again." Maire pointed out. "And we did spare your life. I'm no theologian but I'm pretty sure that sort of thing creates divine debts?"_

" _Fucking hell!" snapped Bhaal. She was right of course. He didn't have to obey her in the strictest sense, but there was a tie now. A tie between himself and Maire and all her mortal descendants until the debt was paid. Those sorts of things irritated and chipped away at the gods like an itch they were desperate to scratch, and they never went away until they were settled._

" _That Amelyssan woman won't be happy," Silvershield pointed out. "I'd bet on the cult retaliating if we rob them of their god."_

" _It's worth it to close the portal!" Maire insisted. "Bhaal, please!"_

_The deity grimaced reluctantly at the portal. He had taken on five demon lords at once, killed three and forced the other two to retreat. True, he'd be taking them on their own turf this time, but their army was greatly diminished. All their best champions lay dead in Dragonspear. He lifted his sword and hefted it gingerly. On balance, he fancied his chances. And as a bonus it'd give him somewhere to wait out the Time of Troubles without the scraping, grating voice of his high priestess._

" _Sod it," he shrugged. "Why not?"_


	46. Divine Debt

Belhifet's tower was surrounded by a lava moat and accessible only by an ancient basalt bridge. It was crafted from stonework so abrasive that those who had fallen on it, Crusader and demon alike, had their flesh scratched to ribbons. Freya stomped over it, treading on one of Caelar's deceased followers rather than breaking her stride. Even in this terrible predicament her behaviour made Rasaad flinch. Honour had dictated that he follow his mad leader down here. He surveyed the fountains of molten rock and heard the cries of the damned, knowing that his own voice might soon be joining theirs. A treacherous little voice in the back of his mind was suggesting that honour might be overrated. Freya was approaching the far side of the bridge now. The little imp by the tower gates fluttered up to meet her.

"The Great One!" it cried ecstatically. "Sarevok told Cespenar you would come here, so Cespenar comes to meet you!" Freya eyed the pathetic, wasted little thing up and down. Demons did not, strictly speaking, age. Yet this one had crinkled papery skin, and was hunched over in a fluttering ball like a bluebottle. It smiled at Freya feebly. "Look at you!" he squeaked, lip wobbling. "Cespenar told them that the Great One would… ACHHH!"

Freya skewered the imp mid-sentence, as she had done with the succubus. She had enough problems without a messenger from Sarevok to deal with. They may be destined to become part of the same being, but Sarevok had slain Gorion, and she had not forgiven him for it. Had she spoken further with the little creature he might have warned her about many things, though the knowledge would have done her little good. As it was, he only had time to warn her about one, so with his remaining breath he chose the most important.

"Thank you Master!" Cespenar wheezed. "I will await you in the Abyss. But Master, for your own sake and everybody else's, protect the Servant of all Faiths! No matter what happens, the Chosen One must survive."

"Oh, what a delightful creature!" cried a totally-unbiased Viconia. "Why did you stab it Freya? Poor little thing. Here, let me heal you."

"Do not even think about dropping the clean air spell so that you can revive Sarevok's familiar!" Freya barked urgently. She had smelled Avernus once and it was enough.

Cespenar looked at Viconia and his great round eyes bulged in panic. He turned his crumpled face to Freya. His own mortal wounds had not bothered him in the slightest, but Viconia's presence here caused him obvious consternation.

"You brought her to hell?" the imp wailed. "No Master! Get her out! If she dies everything is lost… everything…"

Despite Viconia plying him with a healing potion, Cespenar fizzled away into dust. Unlike the Bhaalspawn his dust was silver, not gold, and it blew out like twinkling stars over the planes of Avernus. For a moment the shrieks of the condemned quietened, as the beauty of the glittering sparkles granted them a brief moment of hope.

Ignoring Viconia's reproving glare, Freya continued toward the tower. She was denied her grand entrance of kicking in the gate (which was her usual _modus operandi_ whether the door in question was actually locked or not) since Caelar had beaten her to it. Aside from a few small demons they met no resistance on their way in. The further they progressed the sparser the Crusader bodies became. It seemed there were few or none left. Caelar had simply left her followers where they fell and kept climbing.

At first the party were confused as to why a demon lord's tower would be so poorly defended. They climbed a spiral staircase, finding nothing more menacing along the way than the odd flesh monster or lesser demon. The steps swapped at random intervals between steep and shallow so that they could not settle into a steady stride. The doors to the rooms shooting off were sealed shut and there was no space to rest. Gradually the party began to grow breathless.

With no windows to look out of and nothing but a yawning black chasm in the centre of the spiral stairs it was impossible to gauge how close they were to the top. At one point they tried sitting down to get their breath back, but as soon as they stopped moving the steps began to tilt. Barely perceptibly, so that they did not notice at first, they began to slope downward. Freya felt her bum shift and, realising that they were in danger of sliding down to the bottom, yelled a warning. They jumped to their feet and hastened forward.

It was a cunning defence. The tower was designed not to block assailants with force, but to ensure that they were utterly fatigued by the time they reached the top. Viconia, who was also having to maintain her air-freshener spell, became too exhausted to go on. Her legs gave way beneath her, and Rasaad lifted her up. The drow buried her face into his thick neck, trying to block out where they were. He smelled faintly of sweat and the oil he used to shave. She imagined that instead of hell, they were lying together in his bedroll to sleep. So absorbed did she become in her fantasy that she let the spell slip and was only jolted out of it when Freya began choking again.

…

**1356\. Dragonspear Castle.**

_As Bhaal, Maire and the Duke emerged into the open air to announce that the god would be departing to close the portal, an unfortunate sight met their eyes. The sounds of ongoing battle they had heard were not the soldiers mopping up the last of the demons after all. Instead, as soon as the battle was won, the Cult of Bhaal and the Flaming Fist had turned on each other._

_Who exactly started it and how it had escalated was difficult to judge. Both sides promptly blamed the other when questioned by their leaders. What was obvious, however, was that Bhaal's Cult had won. Along the battlements hundreds of Fist soldiers had been lined up with rope about their necks and daggers to their backs. In the centre of the courtyard a wicker effigy had been erected in the shape of one of Bhaal's spikier avatars. It had been assembled with such speed and practise that the Duke suspected the cult of constructing these on a fairly regular basis._

_Kindling was being piled up around the base, and the cultists were singing as they worked. For a sect dedicated to the Lord of Murder the tune was surprisingly pleasant, though the lyrics certainly weren't. Some of Bhaal's followers were foraging among the remains of the demons, slicing off a tail here or a fang there to decorate themselves and their weapons. It had an almost festive atmosphere, except of course for the Flaming Fist. A long line of struggling soldiers were being bundled inside the wicker monster, supervised by Amelyssan._

" _Ah." Bhaal said, avoiding the Duke's eye. "This is a bit awkward."_

" _We are ready to burn the treacherous infidels," Madele said, eyeing Maire coolly. "Just say the word."_

" _Traitor!" thundered the Duke. "I should have slain you when I had the chance!"_

" _Hang on, I never ordered you to start murdering our allies!" said Bhaal. "Why are you doing this?"_

" _No of course you didn't… Amelyssan did," replied Madele. "And we're performing this sacrifice to give thanks for our victory." She was speaking very slowly, as though Bhaal was a toddler who had just asked; why are birds?_

" _Thanking who?" demanded Bhaal, bemused._

" _You. Obviously." Madele squinted suspiciously. "You do appreciate our sacrifices don't you?" She looked rather hurt. Bhaal grinned guiltily. "Some of them were a lot of effort! My father put up a tremendous fight!"_

" _Now that one do I remember," Bhaal said hastily. "That was a fine murder Madele, very… enthusiastic… Much appreciated." She glared at him from under her bushy black hair with piercing green eyes. Maire's doe-like orbs were boring into him too. The god looked panicky, eyes darting from one woman to the other in a way that reminded Freya of Coran when his various amours were cross with him. "Um… I love you Madele?" Bhaal hazarded eventually._

" _Arsehole!" Madele snapped, though there was obvious fondness in the way she said it. Silvershield baulked. He was fairly certain that his own god, Helm, would not suffer being henpecked like this by his own followers. The Duke did not have time to wonder at the way Bhaal permitted his cultists to address him, however. He was more worried about his own people. "We were going to have a midnight burning," Madele said, ruefully. "Everyone was really looking forward to it."_

" _Well… don't!" Bhaal spluttered._

" _Ok," Madele shrugged, nonplussed. To the Duke's horror, a demon slithered out of her bodice and slipped to the floor at Bhaal's feet. He raised his crossbow automatically, but Bhaal seized the bolt and directed it firmly downward._

" _No need, this one is mine," he said, holding out a fist, which the demon scuttled up like a pet lizard. "A craftsman… demon… thing. Very useful but not a fighter."_

_The Duke pulled Maire closed to him and looked down his nose at the repulsive thing. The imp smiled back toothily. It had great swimming eyes and a haggard, stooped appearance. Though more reptilian than humanoid, it nevertheless put him in mind of an old man. Like Madele, it seemed to adore Bhaal._

" _Cespenar did mention to Master that Amelyssan was growing overly vicious," the little imp ventured. "Perhaps the Great One might consider a reshuffle in the hierarchy…"_

" _Amelyssan may have overreached on this occasion but she's the only one I trust to oversee the culling of the Bhaalspawn," Bhaal replied grimly. "I will have to die a thousand times before this is over. I'd rather each one be quick, and when it comes to sacrifice there is nobody in Faerun more efficient than my high priestess."_

" _You'll have to die?" repeated Maire._

" _Don't ask," sighed Bhaal. "It'll only depress you."_

…

**Present Day.**

"Bugger me with a pitchfork," Freya groaned as she, Rasaad and Viconia finally staggered to the top of the tower. The monk placed Viconia carefully on the ground, though he was so drenched in sweat by this point that she slipped from his arms and stumbled. She ought to be more frightened than she was, and yet somehow his presence was even more comforting than Freya's.

"That could easily be arranged," came Hephernaan's amused voice.

The silky haired priest was standing at the feet of a creature that could only be Belhifet himself. He loomed above them, a hooved monstrosity. His body looked as though Rasaad had been painted red and inflated. In fingers as thick as a normal person's arm he wielded a vast butcher's cleaver. There was something almost orcish in his tusked face, though unlike an orc his eyes were devoid of anything but malevolent cruelty. He was adorned with chains which, despite being made of gold, had somehow managed to tarnish.

"Shar, I beg you, look down upon your humble servant and protect her," Viconia whispered.

"Selune, shine your light to guide me from this place," pleaded Rasaad.

"If Selune, Shar and the rest of the pantheon could, just this once, see their way clear to not fucking me in the arse while I have a pound of shit coming the other way, I would be eternally grateful," Freya added in her own peculiar brand of prayer.

"Ah, child of Bhaal!" a voice like scraping slate welcomed them. "You are just in time to witness the fall of Caelar Argent."

"Is she falling to her knees or on her back?" Freya asked, grinning broadly as Belhifet stepped forward, hooves clomping on the stone. "I've spent a lot of evenings picturing both. Although I have to say, that rancid ham between your legs is spoiling it for me a bit. You want to put on a loincloth or something?"

"There is nothing you or anyone can do to save Caelar now, godling!" Hephernaan crowed. "She will hang in the hall of my master and better yet, you will hang beside her."

"Your master already has more hanging flesh than he needs and if he doesn't put it away before we start fighting, the first thing I'll do is lop it off!" growled Freya, pointing her sword at Belhifet's nether regions threateningly.

"Damn you Hephernaan!" Caelar howled. "It was your treachery that brought me to this!"

"My treachery and your arrogance Shining Lady," Hephernaan smirked. "This is the secret of Caelar's crusade, Freya. There is only one soul in Avernus whom Caelar ever cared for. Her uncle Aun Argent, the man who sacrificed all to save her."

He gestured to a series of gilded cages hanging behind his master. All of them were currently empty save for one. It imprisoned a frozen man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, with red hair like Caelar's own. Unlike his niece, their shared divine heritage had not re-emerged in this aasimar descendant. His eyes, deep, still and sad, were a normal hazel. Hephernaan snapped his thin fingers and the man unfroze. He blinked slowly, apparently unsurprised to realise where he was. Then his eyes landed on his niece and his face fell.

"Is this true?" cried Rasaad.

Hephernaan smiled, a triumphant, reptilian smile. It seemed as though he was looking for some sort of response. Freya looked at Caelar whose charming heart-shaped face seemed broken with shame. Despite all the trouble she had put her through, Freya was minded to forgive her. This spoke to a fundamentally shallow streak in the Hero's nature. Had Caelar been male and not a full-bodied, fiery-maned woman sporting the fetching beginnings of a double-chin, Freya would certainly have beheaded her before she had a chance to open her mouth.

"It is true," Caelar admitted. "I brought myself to this. Nobody made me come."

"I'll make you come if you like," Freya volunteered, comfortingly.

Caelar and Herphernaan both grimaced. Despite the one's duplicity, they had not come this far together without certain shared traits. One of them was a flair for the dramatic. This was a critical moment for both of them that they instinctively felt merited gravitas and respect. Freya was spoiling it. They were saved having to respond however, by Aun Argent, whose voice shook with heartbroken disappointment.

"Caelar my niece, I do not know what price you paid to come here to free me, but it was too high."

"You can say that again," muttered Freya.

"It was a divine debt," replied Caelar. "No price was too high."

Now Freya was doubly-minded to spare her opponent. Caelar was a divine being too, and the daily knowledge of the debt must have gnawed at her soul. Freya could remember being a god, and what divine debt meant. Bhaal owed one to the Silvershields that had never been properly settled. He'd found an alternative way to repay Maire, but Duke Silvershield had never collected his due. It had been eating at her all this time without her even knowing it, ever since she had first met his heir, Skie.

The time had come, it was dawning on her, to finally pay up. Somebody would have to stay behind and seal the portal, or sooner or later the demons would find a new way to open it. Over and over the war to close it would have to be fought and every time more mortals would be dragged into eternal torment. Bhaal owed the Silvershields and one way or another, he would have to pay.

"Wolf-Freya is convinced that Skie's running the show," Freya sighed, defeatedly, "And I finally understand why."

…

**1356\. Dragonspear Castle.**

_The mood in the castle courtyard had turned sour. Their sacrifice had been halted. The Fist had been released from the wicker avatar and were readying themselves for the march home with as much haste as dignity would permit. Meanwhile the atmosphere among the cult was one of sulky disappointment._

" _Since when did you interfere with the day to day running of the cult?" demanded Amelyssan._

" _It's my damn cult woman!" Bhaal exploded. "I'll interfere as much as I choose!"_

" _All your interventions do is annoy people!" she snapped. "There was no need for us to be here in the first place. Do you know how many of your followers perished today? I told you we should have let the demons and the Flaming Fist fight it out, then move in afterward to annihilate the winner. But no, you had to go reliving your glory days and run off into battle yourself. Now that it's over you won't even allow your followers a little fun?"_

" _Just check with me first before you slaughter entire armies, is that too much to ask?" Bhaal thundered._

" _Have you so little to do that you wish to be informed every time we make a sacrifice?" Amelyssan screeched*. "Perhaps you'd like me to show you the laundry lists from now on too? You know I've been going over the finances and I think we could get a discount on black studded boots if we buy in bulk. Would you care to oversee that as well?"_

_That was when Bhaal chose to drop the bombshell that he was leaving them to close the portal to Avernus. Amelyssan's fury was spectacular to witness. Great storm clouds appeared above their heads from nowhere and blinding bolts of white lightening struck at the ground frying cultist and Fist officer alike. Maire clung to the Duke as their terrified followers hurtled for cover. The castle walls shook and the ground beneath their feet trembled at the priestess's wrath._

" _Sweetheart, think of the baby," said Bhaal, who could never resist giving the hornets' nest an extra poke._

" _Master, I will follow you into Avernus if that is your command," Madele said loyally._

" _And what about the rest of us?" demanded Amelyssan. "Who have killed for you, given birth for you, lived and died for you? You would just abandon us? You selfish pig!"_

" _Do you want to be dragged into hell by demons?" thundered Bhaal._

" _Very well. I see that you must go," sighed Amelyssan._

_The storm clouds dispersed as quickly as they had come and the cultists and officers began cautiously re-emerging. The soil lay still once more and all that was left of her rage were a few blackened, smouldering corpses. The high priestess sat down quietly on a flagstone, pouting. For some reason this seemed to frighten Cespenar far more than her previous display and the little imp retreated to the safety of Madele's bodice with a squeak._

" _Damn," muttered Bhaal. Silvershield raised his eyebrows questioningly. "This is too easy."_

" _You're her god," replied Silvershield firmly, "It's not like she can stop you."_

_But he was wrong there. They approached the priestess cautiously. She sat with her cloak spilling over the ground, her straw-coloured hair fanning in the breeze. Her hand stroked her armoured belly, in which the child she would have to sacrifice was growing up. That little piece of his soul was in safe hands. Even with his permission to kill him in his new lives and despite all the mothers having been volunteers, Bhaal was expecting at least some of them to change their minds about sacrificing their babies. Amelyssan, he knew, would not hesitate._

" _If you go, the cult have all the more reason to commit this orgy of murder to bring you back!" Amelyssan snuffled, adding unconvincingly, "I fear that unless you are there to give the command in person I will be unable to prevent this sacrifice. Or the next one or the one after that."_

" _Can't or won't?" growled Silvershield. Amelyssan chuckled at him, a cruel sneer playing over her lopsided features._

" _Yes," she replied simply. "In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that if their god deserts them, some of the rogue elements of the Cult may take it upon themselves to do something… drastic."_

" _And by drastic you mean…?" demanded Silvershield._

" _I have a terrible premonition that Baldur's Gate may burn to the ground," Amelyssan replied, in a voice like steel._

…

**Present Day.**

"You have beaten me, Belhifet, I see that now," sighed Caelar. "But consider the ways I might be of use to you. Let my uncle go and I will offer you my service."

"You would serve me, Caelar Argent?" the demon boomed, his interest peaked. "You would be a blackguard in the service of Belhifet?"

"Yes," whispered Caelar, unable to lift her gaze from the floor.

"No!" cried Aun Argent from his cage. "Caelar don't do this."

He grasped the golden bars and rattled them. They jangled noisily, like tinkling bells, but did not break. He stuck his arm through them as though reaching for his wayward niece, to pull her back once more into the light. Tears were rolling down Caelar's rounded cheeks. Freya glanced at Belhifet and immediately wished she hadn't or, at least, that he had heeded her request to cover himself.

"I must," Caelar wept.

"No seriously don't," insisted Freya. "It'll be too _hard_. I mean I know being a Blackguard sounds," she coughed, " _Exciting_ but I really _wouldn't._ "

"I didn't get that last one," said Rasaad mildly. Faced with Belhifet in this state, whose uncovered staff was roughly at a level with his face, he realised how impervious life with Freya had made him to this sort of thing.

"Wouldn't," Freya repeated. "Wood-n't."

"Not one of your better innuendos," the monk observed. He thought of Arowan, who considered punning the highest form of wit. Perhaps she would have appreciated Freya's joke more. She was safe on the other side of the portal away from all this and his heart screamed to go back to her.

Blinded by tears, Caelar dropped to one knee before Belhifet and held out her sword for him to take. He reached out a hand, a wicked grin spreading over his face, but withdrew it quickly as Freya's broadsword swung to intercept. Caelar sprang to her feet to defend her new master, striking at the werewolf with an ornate silver blade. It was set in the hilt with white and red gems and shone like starlight, an elfin weapon.

There was nothing delicate about the sword that had been wielded first by Bhaal and then Sarevok. It was a heavy, sharp steel affair. It was designed for one purpose and that was not to be easy on the eye. Behind the heavy weapon was a stronger fighter than Caelar. The sound of metal on metal rang out around the chamber, but Freya was fighting defensively, and the Shining Lady's heart was not in it. They paused after only a brief clash.

"If you became a Blackguard that'd be sexy as hell," panted Freya. Caelar's eyes narrowed. "I'm just pointing out that I'm not the only one who thinks so." She jerked her head toward Belhifet, but Caelar's shining eyes were still fixed on the werewolf. "Flaming hells, you are slow on the uptake. You don't want to do this Caelar!"

"How many lives have already been lost to free my uncle? I would do it again, and sacrifice a thousand more!" Caelar cried, turning to Freya, distraught. She swung her sword in an overhead blow that the Hero parried easily. "I have considered the things he might have me do."

"Er… have you actually considered _all_ of them?" asked Freya doubtfully. "From what I've seen of Dorn, these contracts with demons are pretty much impossible to get out of once you're bound to one. You go through with this and you're going to be fucked."

"The only one who'll be fucked is you!" screamed Caelar and she charged Freya in earnest this time. Rasaad hovered, unsure of whether to intervene while his leader was still attempting to talk her around. "You have made your last stupid innuendo, Bhaalspawn!"

"Yeah… I switched from innuendo to literal several sentences ago and you're still not following me," said Freya. Caelar frowned at her. The werewolf sighed. "And they say _I'm_ stupid. All I'm suggesting is that you might want to take a glance in the vicinity of your new master's missing loincloth before you commit to this!"

Freya sheathed her sword and backed off, hands raised. It was a risk, but Caelar had to see that it wasn't a trick to make her look away so that she could slay her. She looked at Belhifet, as her rival suggested, and had to do a double-take. Locked in his cage, the unfortunate Aun Argent had his face buried in his hands. There were things no paladin should ever have to see. The Shining Lady backed up hastily, turning green around the jowls. Slaughtering legions of innocents to secure the release of her uncle was one thing, but even divine debt could only push an aasimar so far.

"Over time you'll change your mind. I can wait," gurgled Belhifet. "Blackguarding for a demon warps your soul. Improves it. After a few decades with me you will certainly come to see things differently."

"Uggh!" cried Caelar, apparently at a loss for words. The Bitch of Baldur's Gate, confident that she had won the argument, sidled up beside her and leaned on her broad shoulder.

"The phrase you're searching for is 'bugger that for a lark,'" Freya whispered helpfully.

"B- bugger that for a lark?" Caelar repeated weakly, still staring at Belhifet's loins.

"That's the spirit!" the Hero said bracingly. "Now let's stab him before he stabs us. Oh no, grim. That was an unfortunate choice of words."

"After everything I've done, you would have me at your side?" asked Caelar, determined to reintroduce some paladinesque decorum into this squalid situation.

Freya grinned, a lopsided doggy-smile. Viconia tilted her silver head to one side and surveyed her charming, cocky surface leader. She may be as mad as a pondfull of frogs in mating season, but unlike Arowan at least she was strong. It was not demeaning to follow a female like this one, even if it was a little frustrating, and the drow allowed herself to hope that she might finally find a measure of stability once they made it back to the Prime.

"Over me, under me, at the side," Freya shrugged. "I'm easy."

"Yes. I believe you are," said Caelar slowly. From his cage Aun wrinkled his nose in mild disapproval, but Freya let out a bark of laughter. "So be it! The child of Bhaal and the Shining Lady will stand together against this devil's darkness."

"You are as arrogant as my mistress," Hephernaan hissed. Greenish-black leather wings burst from his back. A forked tongue was winding its way from his mouth and his hands and feet were morphing into talons. "And you will share her fate!

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *reference to I Claudius, my favourite book/show of all time.


	47. Like Father Like Daughter

Arrow flopped down on the bed exhausted. They had locked her in Caelar's former bedroom and barricaded the door shut. She had wrenched at it, pounded, screamed, pleaded and cursed the lot of them but to no avail. Then she had set herself to finding other ways out, but it seemed the Shining Lady was expecting assassination attempts. The windows were magically sealed, the floor and ceiling inconveniently devoid of trap doors and the walls as solid as they looked.

The door had opened briefly and Arrow's heart leaped, hoping that Rasaad had returned or that they had at least relented enough to let her follow him. She flung herself at the door but not fast enough. A huge, muscular grey arm belonging to Dorn hurled Imoen in after her by the scruff of the neck. Then the door had slammed shut once more. No amount of begging or threats from either of them would persuade the others to open it again.

So now they were lying defeated on Caelar's bed. Imoen was curled up against Arrow, her fingers digging into her tunic so hard that it hurt.

"I can't lose another one Arrow, I can't," she whimpered.

Arowan did not reply. She had no thought for anyone but Rasaad. She'd never liked her arrogant, overbearing sister very much. Leading the moon monk into hell made her like Freya even less. As for Viconia, as an Ilmatari the idea of condemning any soul to hell was not one she could truly relish. Yet if there was one person whom she would not be sorry to see suffer for eternity, it was the drow cleric. Just as long as Rasaad came back in one piece, she could not bring herself to care much what happened to the other two.

Imoen felt much the same way about Freya. She loved all of the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn unconditionally, even Eric who had been turned by Numbing Potions into a murderous psychopath. It briefly crossed Arrow's mind that if she took a drop of Gamaz's potion her feelings would stop and she'd be able to think clearly. Perhaps come up with a way to escape this room or convince the others that she was calm enough to release. Yet she quickly dismissed the notion.

Viconia was a powerful healer, Rasaad the strongest warrior of his order. A man who was blessed by Selune, and who had helped to slay a dragon. Unbearable though the waiting was, in her heart of hearts she knew that Khalid was right. She and Imoen could do nothing but slow them down, and perhaps get them killed. Imoen especially was in no state to help. She was jerking violently, the fear of losing another of her Bhaalspawn was causing her personality to fragment again. Out of the twelve souls whom Gorion had shaved pieces from to make Imoen, only two survived and of those Freya was dearest to her.

Freya who had the highest real chance of survival and whom Imoen had not expected to lose. Who had been her best friend until the pink-haired girl was supplanted first by Coran and Safana, then Corwin, Skie and Viconia. The Hero hardly noticed her childhood friend anymore. Arrow wondered whether Imoen minded. If she did, she never let it show, but then her neglectful upbringing by Gorion had probably left her expecting such treatment.

" _Like father, like daughter,"_ Arrow thought uncharitably.

The Hero wasn't thinking about Imoen now. Instead she was thinking about Coran, and how she would never have a beer with her best mate again. She jumped Belhifet's meat cleaver. The demon was strong but clumsy and Flaming Fist discipline had improved her technique. It would have been an easier battle were she not so tired from climbing those wretched stairs.

Rasaad was doing his best to distract the demon lord while Freya inflicted most of the damage, much as he had done when they'd fought the temple dragon. Viconia tried not to watch him. She wanted to protect him with her spells but that would mean dropping the Zone of Sweet Air to cast them, so all she could do was watch. Caelar was preoccupied with Hephernaan. Despite the fact that Arrow was correct in her guess that he was a concealed demon, the Shining Lady was still taking his betrayal personally. _Too_ personally, it struck Viconia suddenly. She smiled.

"Make sure he suffers Caelar!" she called suddenly. "I too know what it is to be betrayed by a male who shared my bed. Deal with him the drow way!"

Her observation had an interesting effect on the demon lord. Belhifet seemed to inflate with fury like a puffer fish, then deflate rapidly. As he did so a powerful rush of air spread out from him, knocking them all prone. Hephernaan scrambled to his scaly feet first to find his enraged master looming over him. He screeched and wrapped his wings protectively over his head.

"WHAT?!" thundered Belhifet.

"Master, no! It isn't true!" Hephernaan shrieked in terror.

"I never…!" Caelar turned as red as her hair and cast an anxious glance at Aun Argent. "I didn't! I wouldn't!"

"Hey nobody would blame you Caelar, he's damned pretty," said Freya reasonably. She eyed Hephernaan in his true form. There were fangs poking from his lipless mouth and even his scales had scales. "In human form anyway. Hells even I might have let him eat me out so long as he put a frock on first."

"SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MINE HEPHERNAAN!" Belhifet thundered. "AN _UNSPOILT_ SOUL FOR MY COLLECTION!"

The floor of the tower shook and the stones about his feet began to bubble and melt. He slammed his cleaver into the ground in fury, then wrenched it up again leaving a deep groove in solid rock. The blade gleamed in orange light from the windows. It was the only part of the tower that seemed to have them. Out of one Viconia could see legions of demons marching in formation, awaiting only the order of their master to unleash them into the Prime. Freya, however was picking her thumbnail with the tip of Sarevok's sword. It was raw bravado, an act. Viconia noticed that the Hero employed that strategy a lot, though it was unclear whether she was trying to convince her enemies or herself with her swagger.

"Woah, woah, woah. Hang on a minute! Are you trying to say a woman's soul is 'spoiled' if she's not a virgin?" Freya challenged. "Bit misogynistic that. I mean what about me? Do I pass your purity test? Technically I'm a virgin, by some definitions. Also, you accepted Aun's soul… does that mean he's never…?"

"Unspoilt doesn't necessarily mean virgin!" Aun cut in from his cage, only a shade defensively, "But intercourse with a demon definitely counts as spoiling."

"Yeah, alright," Freya conceded, looking Hephernaan up and down. He had finger-like projections sprouting from his chest that might have been oddly shaped nipples. Or they might have been something else entirely. Either way they were pulsating in a most unappealing manner. "I mean even by my standards that's a bit extreme."

"Shocking the Bitch of Baldur's Gate is quite an achievement," purred Viconia to Rasaad. "Caelar should be proud. When we get home we should pitch the Shining Lady against Jaheira. Bring up the topic of sex and see which one blinks first."

"Yes, and then the winner can take on you," Rasaad said quietly, with the ghost of a smile.

"Pardon?" gasped Viconia.

It wasn't that she was offended. Not offended exactly. In fact, if anything, she was rather proud of her reputation in this department. It was just that it was such an _un-Rasaad_ thing to say. Yet there was something contagious about Freya that tended to bend people slowly to her way of thinking. Viconia had been lured from the deeper shadows and Rasaad, though still decidedly standing for the light, was perhaps a little less illuminated than when they had first met. That, and the hellscape seemed to have put him in an odd mood.

"I am sorry," Rasaad said to Caelar, remembering himself. "You did not know what Hephernaan was. We are not judging you for your intimacy with him."

"Which you shouldn't because I _wasn't_ intimate with him!" Caelar insisted, outraged.

"Nah, we're not here to judge demon-aasimar relations. Well, except Belhifet here, he seems pretty pissed about it," pointed out Freya. "But he's a demon soon-to-be eunuch, so who cares?"

Belhifet was beside himself with fury. This made him even less precise with his swinging of the cleaver. For all her posturing, the werewolf was keeping a wary eye on it. One lucky hit and even with her dragonskin armour the demon lord was likely to cleave her in two. Veins stood out all over the demon's skin, though at least this was drawing blood away from other parts of his anatomy. Freya had to be grateful for small mercies.

"You do not get to lecture me on political correctness Bhaal!" the demon lord thundered, swiping his cleaver wildly in the direction of Freya's throat. "I am a king of hell, yet _even I_ never cease to be amazed by the filth that spills forth from your lips. Had I doubted whether you were the same Lord of Murder and not some petty demi-goddess, rest assured my doubts were assuaged the moment you opened your foul mouth! As for you Hephernaan, CAELAR WAS NOT YOURS TO POLLUTE!"

"But I didn't Master!" screamed the demon, throwing himself close to the hoofed demon. Caelar sprang forward to finish him but Belhifet swept her back with the flat of his cleaver. "I swear I didn't! She wanted to, yes she did, but I would never touch something of yours!"

"I believe you," Belhifet replied. Hephernaan's lizard-like body sagged with relief, moments before the cleaver sliced his head in two. "But just in case."

They watched for a moment as the two greyish halves of Hephernaan's brain split open. Then green tinged blood flowed over it. With each pulse of his still pounding heart more swept down his face and onto the floor. Caelar watched with grim satisfaction. Freya, however, scooted down and snatched a golden band from his head. As Belhifet raised his weapon again and she was forced to abandon the remaining loot, she motioned to Rasaad to take anything useful.

With Hephernaan down, both Caelar and Freya were attacking Belhifet and the demon lord had only one weapon with which to defend himself. Rasaad found nothing on Hephernaan that was usable by humans except a heavy maroon cloak. He hurled it over Belhifet's face, like a bullfighter. It blinded the demon for only a moment but it was enough. Caelar's sword found his heart while Freya, who was cruder and also true to her word, made good on her earlier threats of castration.

The hells shook with his demise, the legions outside scattered and a great shockwave blasted from Belhifet's body, shaking the blighted land. Freya picked up the severed member in Hephernaan's red cloak. She would need the powerful blood to shut the portal. Bad enough that she was destined to be trapped here, without shedding her own body fluids. Then she turned back to her companions.

"So, do you want to call it a day?" she asked, "Or shall we find Rasaad that succubus first?"

…

**1356\. Dragonspear Castle.**

" _Well, we're off," said Bhaal gruffly. "Looks like closing the portal for good isn't an option this time around."_

" _You're not exactly what I expected from the Lord of Murder," said Duke Silvershield, winding his pointed goatee around one thin finger._

" _What were you expecting, exactly?" Bhaal growled._

_The Duke suppressed a smile and exchanged a look with Maire. He was not sure what the future would hold for the pair of them, only that his peers were unlikely to make their lives easy. But she was worth it. Even if it meant giving up his lands and titles and running away together. As the last Fist stragglers filed past them, scowling, an impotent fury at the injustice of it surged through him. They were standing with the god of murder. Of murder! Yet at least half of the hateful looks cast in their direction were for Maire and not Bhaal. This hadn't escaped Bhaal's attention either. His eyes traced the stubble around Maire's jawline. Weeks in the army had not allowed her time to keep it in check. Beneath her pretty face was an unmistakable Adam's apple. Bhaal bit his lip._

" _Someone more… evil," Silvershield said bluntly._

" _I'm evil," Bhaal reassured him. "In my mortal life I killed the population of your city a dozen times over and I never felt a shred of guilt. I still don't."_

" _Really? Not even a shred?" asked Maire, sceptically._

_Bhaal looked inside himself. Perhaps there was a trace of remorse. For some of them. Nothing close to what a man like Silvershield would consider sufficient, though for what he had done redemption wasn't really possible. More than that he felt for his soul fragments, his children. Sacrificing them seemed wrong, even though they were him and he was agreeing to it. He could not quite place his finger on why. Removing the memories of what he had done would not cleanse him of responsibility. They were him, and he was them. The Bhaalspawn were not innocents._

" _Perhaps a shred," Bhaal conceded grumpily. "I really hate being a mortal. MADELE!"_

" _Yes Master?" cried Madele, hurrying to them. Her green eyes swept suspiciously over Maire and she gathered her long black curls into a hasty bun, ready to perform whatever duty her lord commanded. Bhaal waited in silence until the last of the Fist officers had filed away and his own cultists were out of earshot._

" _Do you still have Cespenar down your cleavage by any chance?" he grunted._

" _Here, oh Great One!" the little imp trilled cheerfully, poking his head from her blouse. Bhaal's grey eyes flickered from Madele to Cespenar and back again. He wondered about those two, but thought it best not to ask. Some things were best left unknown._

" _Cespenar, I need one of your girdles."_

" _Certainly Master, Cespenar has three new ones stitched ready. If I might take the last ingredient…?" the imp asked hesitantly._

_Bhaal rolled his eyes, drew his sword and closed his fist tight around it. When he released the blade his hand was sticky with blood. He held open his scarlet palm and into it Cespenar dropped a little sea-green beljuril gem. Bhaal squeezed it for a moment. When he released it, the gem had turned a charming purple-pink. Cespenar scooped it up, then vanished for a moment with a pop. When he returned he was holding a slim, ordinary looking belt. In the buckle was a little slot, the perfect size for the blood jewel._

" _This is for you," Bhaal said, holding it out to Maire. "As payment for sparing my life and your half of the debt it created. I don't have anything for you Silvershield. Yet."_

" _I want nothing from you," said the Duke flatly. "Except for you to close that portal! Just because you are less evil than I thought you'd be doesn't change the fact that you're still evil. Maire doesn't want this cursed artefact either, do you?"_

" _What is it?" asked Maire cautiously, making no move to pick it up._

" _A Girdle of Femininity. Put it on and you can be a real woman!" Bhaal declared brightly. There was a cracking noise as Maire slapped him across his bearded cheek. The god blinked in surprise, and had to hold back Madele who sprang forward at once, dagger glinting._

" _I am a real woman, you bastard!" Maire replied in a constricted voice. Bhaal muttered an apology under his breath and held out the belt. The bard reached for it, her fingers brushed it longingly._

" _Maire!" the Grand Duke cried in a frightened moan. Bad enough that she insisted on accompanying him into battle against the might of hell, now she was going around slapping gods!_

_Bhaal threw back his head and laughed, a great roaring laugh that was not far away from Freya's own. Freya raised her hand to her cheek, casting her mind back to a long time ago when she and Skie had first met. Maire's heir had hit her too, exactly like that, and the wolf in her had recognized it, rolled over and whined…_

" _I don't trust you Bhaal!" Silvershield growled. "Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"_

" _I don't know!" boomed Bhaal. "What was in it for you saving my life? Don't say honour or I'll throw up down your armour. I'll warn you, divine vomit sticks!" He looked at Maire and both his expression and voice softened, so that it was almost a sigh. "Divine everything sticks. Including this belt. You won't have to pretend to be Marc anymore. Nobody can take it from you without the blood stone key. Not clerics, not dead magic zones, not the most powerful mortal wizards. As for the key you can take it and drop it to the bottom of the ocean if you like. Or save it if you prefer, for the next person like you."_

" _Why do you have these?" she asked suspiciously._

" _For my male followers who volunteered to be mothers to my children," Bhaal said awkwardly. He really could not be bothered to explain this, and didn't think he wanted to see their faces if he did. As evil death lords went, these two mortals thought him almost a hero. To his own surprise, he didn't hate that. "You don't want to know. Believe me."_

" _Mothers?" Maire asked, as though not daring to believe that. She was eyeing Bhaal mistrustfully as though expecting him to laugh at her any second, and tell her that it was all just a cruel joke._

" _That's what I said," replied Bhaal testily. Maire lifted her hand, pulled it back for a moment, then reached out and grabbed the proffered belt before the Duke could stop her._

" _I want it."_

" _Maire, no!" Silvershield exclaimed. "I won't have you accepting gifts from… from him! I love you as you are!"_

" _You do?" Maire whispered, her eyes welling. The Duke nodded mutely._

_Madele caught Bhaal's eye and mimed vomiting. The Lord of Murder's lip twitched. Good aligned creatures really were the most revoltingly sentimental beings. Evil had its flaws but you could go too far the other way. Surely all that sugar must make them sick._

" _But I don't love me as I am," Maire said quietly. "I can't have children. I hate what I see in the mirror every morning. I hate being called 'he' and 'Marc' and…" She looked like she was about to cry and the Duke wrapped his arms about her protectively. "If you love me at all, you'll let me have this."_

_Bhaal could see that the Duke had already relented but he couldn't resist adding; "And besides, this way it can't be used to sire more Bhaalspawn. So technically you'd be thwarting me."_

" _How many Bhaalspawn are there?" the Duke asked, a distinct note of worry in his voice._

" _A lot," admitted Bhaal. "But you won't have to worry about them. Or me. At least until I think of a way to pay back your half of the debt."_

" _I told you I want nothing from you!" Silvershield repeated firmly. "Except that portal closed. If you can't do that, then you will have to live with owing me for all eternity. Goodbye Bhaal."_

" _Goodbye mortals," Bhaal said, more to Maire than to him. He watched them walk away, Madele and Cespenar by his side, postponing the moment when he would have to follow Amelyssan back to the temple. His high priestess would be giving him grief about this for weeks. He grinned at Maire's retreating back and when they were at a good distance but still within hearing range heckled, "I still think you could do better!"_

_Maire turned and responded with a gesture that made Madele bristle, but Bhaal laughed until his sides ached._

" _Can we go now?" huffed Madele._

" _In a minute," said Bhaal. An uneasiness had crept into his expression. "Our mages are getting ready to plug the portal as best they can, but there's something I need to do first."_

…

**Present Day.**

"Blasted woman!" Freya thundered.

"Who? Me?" asked Viconia, worrying that she had let the clean air spell slip again. She had been holding it for so long now that her head screamed, and her legs wobbled. She longed for nothing more than to collapse and sleep. Freya shook her golden head frustratedly.

"You are addressing me then, Mad Dog?" Caelar asked haughtily.

"No, not you! Maire! Skie! The fucking Silvershields. All of them! I…!" Freya bellowed, clutching her head. She let out a stream of expletives that constituted unusually foul language even by the standards of Avernus. "Why should I have to stay? I'm not him, not yet! This isn't my debt!"

"What are you raving about?" demanded Caelar, recoiling. Her glowing blue eyes flashed. Even in hell she had a brilliance about her, a radiant lustre that drew the tormented souls of Avernus into her aura. Every so often they would take form as a hand in the mist or a face emerging from the ground, and reach to her for comfort.

Freya had collapsed onto all fours, wrenching at her hair, as though trying to wrest the divine essence from her head. When she looked up again her face was scarlet and furious. Her grey eyes burned, almost literally as the fires of hell reflected from them.

"I have to stay and close the portal," Freya screamed. It was not a wholly human sound, but a feral howl. "I still owe the Silvershields a divine debt. He never paid it! Bhaal, the bastard, he never paid it!"

"What? No!" squeaked Viconia in alarm. She had not run into hell itself after her protector so that Freya could sacrifice herself for some heroic bullshit.

"You think I want to Viconia? What am I even going to eat? If the demons don't slay me, I'll starve to death. I'm not an immortal, and I'll die down here," Freya cried from the bottom of her lungs. She looked up at them pleadingly and whined like a puppy. "I don't want to die!"

"Not even the gods could ask this of you," said Rasaad quietly. He placed a heavily inked hand on the werewolf's shoulder. "You do not have to do this my friend."

"She does have to." The Shining Lady's voice cut over them with icy clarity. "It is divine justice. It binds all beings like us. Freya must repay her debt to the Silvershields. Just as I had no choice but to repay my debt to you, uncle. Unless…" Caelar's face twitched. She seemed to be fighting some sort of painful internal battle. "Go home Freya. I'll do it."

"Caelar no!" cried Aun Argent.

"I am a divine being too Uncle," Caelar said. "Our family's aasimar blood re-emerged in me. I had a debt to you and I could not stop until I had repaid it. Yet what I did was evil, even if it was in a righteous cause. So many now have died in my name. I did not stop to count how many followed me into Avernus. Their souls are trapped where they died. I owe it to them to remain with them."

If Rasaad thought that Freya might do the noble thing and insist that she stay to pay off her debt instead, he was about to be sadly disappointed. The werewolf nodded mutely through her tears and bolted for the portal with her tail between her legs. She was stopped only by reaching the edge of Viconia's Zone of Sweet Air. She pawed at the air with her hand whining, desperate to return to their domain before Caelar changed her mind.

He could not blame her. The monk was shaken to his core. There was nothing down here but pain, misery and emptiness. Those trapped down here were suffering and lonely, unable even to turn to each other for succour. Viconia was thinking the same thing, and had been since they'd arrived. She had been unable to grow used to the sound of the screams and ignoring her leader's sudden loss of nerve, she approached Caelar.

"My goddess hears me down here," Viconia said. "Shar grants me my powers and lets me use my gifts as a cleric. The gods will hear your prayers too, maybe louder since you are an aasimar. You could petition them on behalf of souls unjustly trapped here. Perhaps they might lift them out."

"I will try," Caelar promised. "Though I have limited time. I and my fallen followers have our packs with us, but Freya was correct about the food. It will run out within a month."

"Here, take this," said Freya, remembering. Caelar opened Hephernaan's cloak, took one look at the content and promptly wrapped it up again.

"I am not eating that!" she declared firmly.

"It's to close the portal again," Freya muttered guiltily. "Divine blood opened it, the blood of a powerful demon should close it. And yes, I know I'm doing this Hero-thing wrong. I should insist that you go back and volunteer to stay myself, but I can't. I'm sorry."

"They'll probably hang me if I go back. At best lock me away forever," said Caelar. She smiled sadly and pressed her lips to Freya's nose. "For what it's worth, you made a better hero than I did."

They handed the Shining Lady what little food they had, for there was nothing else they could do, and returned to the portal. Freya placed Hephernaan's circlet on her head. It was a little dented from Belhifet's cleaver but this allowed it to fit on her head instead of falling down as a necklace. She froze at the edge of the portal and her eyes widened.

"What are you doing?" howled Viconia, reprovingly. "You never put on a magical object without identifying it first! If you're cursed now…"

"No. I believe that the purpose of this artefact is to raise intelligence slightly. Tell me, Viconia? Rasaad?" said Freya, taking a deep shuddering breath. "When were you planning on telling me that all goblins can talk?"

…

**The Portal. Past, Present and Future.**

_As she stepped into the portal, Freya knew that he would be there. He must have seen her on her way in, but she had been running and he had kept out of the way. Now, just as the memory resurfaced of him coming the other way, her father stepped out in front of her amidst the swirling void. His expression was one of surprise. Bhaal had come to see if the debt would be paid, or if it would gnaw at him forever. He had been expecting to encounter his own mirror image coming toward him. Instead he saw Freya._

" _Well how about that?" Bhaal laughed. "One of my little bastards grew up after all."_

" _You were going to have your cultists kill me as a baby. Fuck you!" Freya barked._

" _I am you!" laughed Bhaal. "Tell me, did I finally kill Belhifet and Ur-Gothoz?"_

" _Ur-Gothoz wasn't there," snarled Freya. "And I killed Belhifet!"_

" _Same thing! Ha!" Bhaal was grinning from ear to ear in a way she found very annoying. "Oh, I bet you're Amelyssan's aren't you?"_

" _How the hell should I know?" she asked. The Hero wondered what would happen if she tried to kill her father, right here in the portal. Would she cease to exist? Their sword was getting confused. It was blinking in and out of existence between her scabbard and his, as though unsure where it was supposed to be._

" _You look like Amelyssan, but you sound like me," Bhaal observed, with just a hint of pride. "Thank the stars you sound like me, that woman is a screeching bloody harpy if ever I heard one."_

" _Don't think about screwing her, I don't want that memory! Oh… no… that's grim… thanks a bunch 'father.'"_

" _Sorry. As soon as you said it, I couldn't help it."_

" _Arsehole!" Freya yelled. She knew that Bhaal was behaving just like her, but that didn't make it any less irritating. "You created that debt with Duke Silvershield and his descendants and didn't pay it off. You're the reason wolf-Freya thinks Skie Silvershield is my Alpha. Do you have any idea what a massive ball-ache that's been?"_

" _Skie eh?" asked Bhaal, interested. "Does she… er… look like Maire by any chance?"_

" _Dead ringer," said Freya. "Especially the eyes."_

" _Maire's a hell of a woman," Bhaal sighed wistfully. "She hit me, can you believe that? A mortal hit me! Bit of a small arse for my taste mind…"_

" _I knew it!" interjected Freya._

"… _But I wouldn't have kicked her out of bed."_

" _I didn't," replied Freya smugly. "Kick Skie out of bed that is."_

" _Ha!" Bhaal barked with approval. He ruffled Freya's golden head. "That's my girl."_

_The portal was not designed for extended visits, it was pushing her out irresistibly. Freya wondered if perhaps she ought to warn her father, or herself, about Cyric and the bridge. Then again, what would be the point? Bhaal had already prepared for it. He'd near emptied himself of divine essence in readiness. What could knowing the precise date and hour of his own demise do except give him something to brood over in his weakness? Before they returned to their own times, Bhaal had one last thing to say to her._

" _You weren't supposed to grow up you know," he said. "The plan must have gone wrong. If you live long enough to form your own personalities..."_

" _The droplets become the lake," Freya nodded as her father faded from view. "But the lake is different now."_

…

**Present Day**

It was a long tense wait for the adventurers guarding the portal. With each tiny sound, real or imagined, they expected it to explode with demons. Yet they grew tired from waiting. Soldiering was one of the few jobs where one could be simultaneously petrified and bored witless. Then the portal had blazed and they raised their weapons in readiness, yet out stumbled not a demon, but Rasaad.

The monk dragged himself out like a drowning man to the shore. He collapsed face first on the flagstones of the castle, lifting his head to look through the blasted wall. The Prime in all its beauty spread out before him. Great forests of conifers teaming with life. Rivers carving their winding path down distant mountains and into the misty valleys below. The sun shone on a few wispy, happy little clouds in the sky. He gave a dry sob.

Viconia emerged a few paces behind him. She could finally drop the clean air spell. There was nothing left in her; no will, no energy, not even enough to perform the proper rituals of thanks to Shar until she'd had a rest. Ignoring the officers she dragged herself feebly into the corner of the room and curled up like a hedgehog.

"Hold your fire!" Bence bellowed. They held their fire, and their breaths. They had to wait longer for the Hero.

Finally Freya came stomping out. She seemed even larger than usual and the golden circlet on her head gave the impression of a monarch. The great broadsword was in her hand and her dragonscale armour was binding her chest. Her hair framed her head like the mane of a lion.

"Well fuck me, that was not a place you want to be with a dog's sense of smell. I'm going to be licking sulphur out of my crotch for weeks."

"You… you're alive!" cried Corwin.

"Yup," grinned Freya. "Turned out some big demon lord tricked Caelar into starting this crusade so he could invade our plane. Killed him, rescued this paladin whoever the hell he is. Didn't get to bang Caelar since she's staying behind to close the portal for good but two out of three ain't bad!"

"Who I am? Weren't you even _listening?_ " Aun Argent stuttered weakly.

"No! I was too busy pissing my fucking breeches! We were in Avernus and there was a demon king right there!" cried Freya. "So no, I was not paying rapt attention to your and Caelar's family squabbles oddly enough."

There was an extended silence. After such a long journey to get here, it seemed a strangely anti-climactic end.

"I'm sorry did I stutter?" boomed Freya, so loudly that her charismatic voice made the timbers shake. "I just slew the King of Hell! Now will one of you lazy scrotums go and get me a drink?"


	48. Oh gods

"I'm r- r- really not sure if this is a good idea," Khalid fretted to his wife in a whisper. "Shouldn't we intervene?"

"And do what?" Jaheira replied acerbically. She waved away the Quartermaster in irritation as he came to refill her tankard. He had indulged in quite a lot of his own ale and was slopping as much down the clothes of his patrons as he was actually getting in their vessels, but everyone was far too jolly to care. "Perhaps it will all work out for the best. Duke Silvershield was running the city into the ground. His cunning snake of a daughter might do a better job restoring the peace. She could hardly be any worse."

The Harpers made to climb back up the stairs to the main party. Imoen had found Freya in one of the lower halls of the castle with Skie, Minsc, Dynaheir and a great number of the Flaming Fist. Corwin was not present. She had been placed on guard duty at the top of the stairs and barred from participating in the celebrations. Freya had not forgotten her betrayal during the siege and did not seem likely to any time soon.

"Here's to commitment and a practised hand!" the werewolf roared clapping the two half-elves on the shoulder. Jaheira grimaced and shrugged her off, but the Hero merely ignored her and returned to the party. She had kept her armour on and looked as she had done when she stepped out of the portal, minus Hephernaan's circlet. The moment Skie realised what it was, an expression of utmost alarm took hold of her and she'd snatched it playfully from her golden head. Jaheira and Khalid had a sneaking suspicion as to why Skie might not want Freya to wear an intelligence boosting artefact. The way the evening was headed, it seemed that they were quite correct.

As they reached the top of the stairs they were accosted by the Captain of the guard.

"What is going on in there?" asked Corwin with a pained grimace.

"B- believe me you d- don't want to know," replied Khalid.

"Idiocy on an unprecedented scale," sighed Jaheira.

Word spread of the Hero's victory and as it did, noise rose and corks began to pop. Yet the two who had contributed most to Freya's triumph were not celebrating with the others. Viconia was out cold, asleep and shivering in her corner of the portal room. Thanks to Caelar it no longer contained a portal, but nobody else felt like going in there to disturb her. There she stayed, oblivious to the discomfort in her fatigue. The Selunite, once he recovered himself, unclipped a cloak from a fallen crusader and draped it over her. Then he stumbled away to find Arrow.

At first it struck him as odd that she had not come to him, but the reason was soon apparent. He was not entirely impressed when the Harpers told him that she'd been imprisoned by her own party, though it was with the aim of keeping her safe. Rasaad did not pause until he reached the room where they had locked Arowan. Dorn was standing guard. He grunted with disappointment to see the monk return alive and well.

"Tell me at least that the odious werewolf snuffed it?" he growled. Dorn was fostering a personal dislike for the Hero, and with good reason. Freya was perpetually remarking on his stench, and though the half-orc was not prone to vanity, he could not ignore such unfiltered criticism.

"The portal is closed, you can go now," Rasaad said stiffly.

"Am I to take it that Belhifet is dead then? Excellent," said Dorn darkly. "I shall inform my master. I expect he will be pleased at your victory, even if I am not."

He stomped away down the corridor, Rancor in hand. The monk's jaw spasmed in annoyance at his retreating back, but he consoled himself with Freya's promise that he would be dealt with later. Viconia, whatever her faults had helped to save the world from a great evil. She had also saved Rasaad, personally, from Avernus. Freya could not have defeated Belhifet without the drow and her air-cleansing spells. If Dorn ever discovered that she was the Chosen of all Faiths the Blackguard would murder her for sure. Rasaad could not let that happen and keep his honour.

He lifted the beam barring the room. It made a loud scraping noise as he moved it and at once he heard feet running toward the door. Palms started beating at it frantically and when he swung it open, Imoen practically tumbled out. Her face was drained of colour and she had pounded her hands bloody trying to escape.

"Rasaad!" Imoen sobbed. "Freya? Is she?"

"The portal is shut and Freya is fine," said Rasaad. He added glibly, "Her only immediate danger is drowning herself."

"Drowning?" Imoen howled, and descended into a fresh wave of sobs.

"I was referring to her excessive drinking. I was merely trying…" Imoen forced her way past him and ran down the corridor weeping in search of Freya, who had not given her a moment's thought since stepping into Avernus. Rasaad sighed. "…to make a joke."

He stepped slowly into the room and paused with his hand upon the door.

Arowan was asleep on Caelar's bed. He might have been offended at her indifference were it not for her blotchy, pale face and the tear-soaked bedsheets. He was not sure how long they had been gone for. The monk was exhausted but still riding a wave of adrenaline. He lay down beside her hoping that sleep would take him, but it did not.

Her hair was growing longer. Brown and choppy, it covered her cheek. He brushed back the strands with his fingertips and his stomach clenched. Arrow's sleeping face was frozen in an expression of perfect misery. He'd cared for her since they'd first met, and yet he'd managed to do everything wrong. He wondered how things would be different if she'd never met him. She'd never have been captured by Gamaz and she might have met someone else. Those were the only real differences. Everything else from returning to Candlekeep to Baldur's Gate she had been dragged into by the irresistible gravity of Freya.

"Arrow? I mean, Arowan?" he spoke softly. She had asked him to stop calling her Arrow. Her eyes opened and she sat up shakily. At first she blinked at him, confused, as though unable to determine whether she was awake or asleep.

"What…?" she asked weakly.

"It's all over," Rasaad said gently, stroking her face. "It's done. Freya slew the demon, Caelar chose to stay behind in Avernus. The portal is closed forever. It's done."

Arowan flopped forward, face pressed into his chest. She was sure that Rasaad had not come home to anything very attractive. Her lips and eyes were puffy from crying. She was sure that her nose must be red and she didn't want him to look at her.

He caught her but the warm weight of her body shaking in his arms was more than he could stand. After the despair and misery of Avernus, only now did he feel safe. The desire to love and be loved coursed through him more urgently than it ever had before. He looked at her with intense, pleading eyes.

"Please? Let me stay?" he managed.

"Yes, alright," said Arrow. She padded up and bolted the door, still trying to keep her face turned from him. As she reached the doorway, the sounds of raucous celebrations drifted up the corridor. "You can rest here. I don't expect anyone will bother you, they're far too busy getting drunk."

Having locked the door she made her way to Caelar's washroom and pulled the curtain across. There was a washbowl in it, the sort that magically replenished itself when the water got dirty. Looking into a polished steel mirror she tried to make herself appear moderately presentable. Perhaps if she took her time, the monk would fall asleep and it wouldn't matter.

Rasaad, however was not asleep. He was fairly certain that Arrow misunderstood what he had been asking and when she returned he was on his feet and looking agitated.

"Arowan?" he began. He sat down, opened his mouth to speak but seemed to change his mind. The monk immediately jumped to his feet and began pacing. "Perhaps- I think you must guess what I-"

Arrow certainly did have a guess but it was the wrong one. She could not be angry with him, not when minutes before she had been fearing his death and eternal damnation. So she backed away from him, eyes on her hands, and speaking very rapidly. No, it was not wholly unexpected, of no concern. They need hardly see each other once they returned to the city. No doubt he had earned enough on this trip to buy his passage back to Calimport. She dared say his friends in the monastery would be delighted to see him.

Rasaad silenced her, placing his broad, warm palm on the back of her neck and bending down to press his lips to hers. The urgency in his kiss was immediate and powerful and he drew her body close to his own, feeling that if he could not have her then he may as well have stayed in Avernus.

"I must tell you, Arowan, that after the events of these past weeks I feel myself drawn to you in a way I never imagined possible." He confessed, his forehead pressed against hers. "For some time now I've restrained my baser urges, for fear of losing control. I can no longer contain them, and in truth I do not want to."

"Rasaad, are you sure?" Arrow asked. "Your order-"

"Romantic relationships are rare in my order but they are not technically forbidden," Rasaad cut over her hastily. He looked so earnest and hopeful that she could not help wanting to please him. Yet she had been burnt before by Rasaad and it had taught her caution.

"That's good," she said, a shade dryly. "I'd hate to think we were doing something technically forbidden."

"We _are_ doing something then?" the monk asked, his heart hammering. He'd never been more sure of wanting anything in his life. He had seen hell and it had stamped a visceral terror into his heart. Arrow was alive, and close and loved him. He yearned to lose himself in that, and could imagine nothing else which could alleviate his wretched state.

"Is that what you want?" asked Arrow, determined to keep her voice level.

"Yes. More than you know."

She stroked her hands down his arms, feeling the knots of muscle under her fingers. Her lips found his neck and kissed lightly where it met his collarbone. She felt him tense under her hands and he drew in a sharp breath. Then she looked up at him, eyes shining, and nodded.

Rasaad kissed her and lifted her up so that her legs were wound about his middle. With one hand supporting her back and the other cupped around her arse, he carried her to the bed and laid her down on it. He positioned himself on top of her and kissed her, feeling her body moving beneath him, and unable to believe that this was actually happening. He ran his fingers through her soft hair, thinking that it was impossible to get her close enough.

Then he hesitated, unsure of what to do next. How this was possible when he had run over this moment in his head almost every night since they'd met, he was not sure. Sensing this, Arrow sat up and drew his hands to the ties on her tunic. He fumbled them lose and she pulled his shirt over his head. He was glad to be rid of it. The clean air spell amidst the fumes of Avernus meant that it did not smell as bad as it might have done, yet it was still so clogged with his drying sweat that cleaning it would require more of an exorcism than a wash.

Arrow was far too caught up in the grip of love to notice any of this. She shrugged off her tunic the rest of the way and for the first time the pair of them were able to take a proper look at each other. Rasaad's curiosity as to how far down Arrow's freckles went was finally satisfied. They sprinkled down her neck and chest, decorating the swell of her breasts. The monk was sure that he had never seen anything so pretty in his life, and for a moment was utterly transfixed. Arrow could not repress a giggle.

Realising that he had been staring, Rasaad looked up, rather ashamed of himself. He respected her deeply. The last thing he wanted to do was sully that by objectifying her. Arrow lifted his hand and placed it over her right breast. He swallowed. She was so very soft, and he brushed his thumb over her. As it flicked over her nipple she made a little gasp of pleasure, and once he was sure that it _was_ pleasure and he hadn't accidentally hurt her, Rasaad began to gain a little more confidence.

Arrow pulled him on top of her wrapping her legs around his waist. He ground against her through his clothes with a moan. Pleasure flooded through him and he pressed against her again aching for more.

It was not enough for her, however. She longed to feel the fullness of him buried inside her and when she could bear it no more she slid out from under him to remove the last of their clothes. They eased their way out of their breeches, kicking off their boots and socks which made them both briefly self-conscious. There is something innately unsexy about the existence of socks. Yet the moment soon passed.

Rasaad pressed her back onto the bed and mounted her once more. His size coupled with the lack of preparation was making Arrow rather nervous, but it had taken him so long to get to this point that she would not risk postponing it. He pressed against her twice more, muscles tensed but missed his mark both times. She reached down to guide him and her fingers found his shaft.

"Ah! Arowan I… oh gods. _Oh gods!"_

The feeling seared through him like an electric shock. He threw his head back and cried out in a voice that he barely recognized as his own. The man seemed to be enjoying it so much that she postponed her own pleasure for a moment in order to stroke him more. Only when he seemed in danger of coming into her hand, did she guide him in.

Rasaad found himself scarcely able to breathe. The tightness and the heat wrapped around him was far different from the dry palm-like sensations he'd imagined. It was so much better. Under him Arrow moaned and pushed her hips forward. He could only get as far as the tip, for she was not prepared, although he lacked the experience to know it. Encouraged by her gasps and her urging him into her, he pressed in deeper each time until she melted for him.

Once he had pushed all the way inside he had to pause, knowing that if he kept moving he would spill straight away. He was propped up on his forearms and scanned her face earnestly for evidence of pain or pleasure. She smiled at him, shyly. It hardly helped with restraint. His body began to move of its own accord, though the pause had enabled him to last a little longer. It was near impossible not to come with each stroke and the way she was looking at the muscles on his arms, her hands caressing him lovingly and the little noises she was making…

Rasaad's body began to shake and his rhythm was replaced by frantic urgency. Sensing he was getting close, Arrow gave an encouraging moan and lifted her fingers to his face. His eyes were shut and lips parted.

"Oh gods," he panted. His legs and arms began shaking violently.

"I love you," Arrow whispered.

It was too much for Rasaad. With a cry like a bull he came, letting the waves of pleasure flood through him. Then he collapsed, finally, into her arms.

He slept more heavily than he had in a long time, though not entirely peacefully. Triggered by Avernus perhaps, he found himself revisited by a troubling dream. He was following Arrow through the great snow drifts of the Cloud Peak mountains, to the moonlit ledge where his brother had died. She ventured so near the cliff edge he was afraid that she would fall off. He kept calling and pleading with her to come back, but she was not listening.

The first warm rays of morning light filtered in from the window and over the bed. Rasaad smiled in his sleep, relieved that the dream had changed to something nicer. He felt well rested. Avernus seemed no more than a distant nightmare. He dreamed that Arrow was lying half-awake with her head on his chest. She had a pleasant, warm weight and he basked in the sensation of her breath against his skin. He pulled her closer not wanting to wake up. The next moment, he realised that he was awake.

His eyes shot open, and anxiety flooded through him like a bursting damn. Arrow knew instantly that he had woken up because his calm deep breaths became shallow and panicked. The slow, steady thump of his heart accelerated until it pounded in her ear with terrifying speed.

Rasaad's thoughts ran a little like this;

' _I was terrible, I knew I wouldn't be any good at this. She'll be comparing me to Coran. She'll wake up and tell me it wasn't what she was expecting and I'm not good enough. Will she laugh at me? Please don't let her laugh at me.'_

Arrow's own state of mind was scarcely any better;

' _I'm an idiot, I shouldn't have done this. He's going to leave me again just like he always does. Probably he'll run back to the monastery to do penance for the rest of his life. He doesn't love me. I want to take it back. Why can't I take it back?'_

It was some time before either of them dared to move. Arrow was the one who got up first. Not wanting him to see her messy hair or morning-face she scrambled up with her back to him and half-ran into Caelar's water closet.

Her reaction seemed to confirm Rasaad's worst fears. The monk sprang up, hastily replaced his small clothes and as an afterthought made the bed. He eyed the door to the water closet as though expecting a dragon to come bursting through it. Instead Arrow padded out cautiously, wrapped in a towel.

"Good morning," he ventured nervously. "You slept well I trust?"

"Quite well," she replied awkwardly. "And you?"

"Well. Very well." There was a very uncomfortable silence. Rasaad's hands began to shake but he buried them into the bedclothes so that Arrow would not see. "You aren't having second thoughts I hope?"

"I don't think so," said Arrow, whose thoughts at this moment depended very much on his thoughts. "What about you?"

"Not at all. That is to say… I hope… If you enjoyed yourself as much as I…" Rasaad fumbled. He looked so sweet and hopelessly lost that her heart fluttered. He was shirtless and sat up in her bed. Arrow did not think that there was another man alive who looked so sexy without his shirt. She smiled at him. "So you did enjoy yourself then?" he pressed.

"Yes," said Arrow. She bit her lip, wondering if teasing him was worth the risk. She dropped the towel and watched his pupils dilate. "I think I might like it even more with practise."

"We will practise then?" Rasaad asked, leaning forward eagerly. "That is… good to know."

Happiness flooded through them both as Arrow joined him in the bed and this time Rasaad lasted long enough not to be embarrassed by his performance. She loved him, he was secure in it. There was hunger in her eyes when she looked at his body. The monk, who dedicated most of his energy into maintaining his strength, could not help but feel like a stag when she looked at him like that.

The sun was higher in the sky when he rolled off of her a second time, heart and body sated. He dozed in the warm rays pouring through the window, until his stomach gave a loud grumble and he realised how long it had been since he had actually eaten anything.

"We should get up," he said half-heartedly after a while. Arrow made a sleepy noise of dissent.

"I can't be bothered to deal with their drama right now," she sighed.

"What drama?" asked Rasaad contentedly. "We won. The portal is closed."

"You know there'll be something," sighed Arrow. "With the Hero around there always is."

She was more correct than she could possibly have guessed.

In the farthest alcove of Dragonspear castle, Freya's eyes shot open. She lurched bolt upright, staring blankly ahead of her. Her armour, clothes and Hephernaan's circlet lay abandoned in a heap. Recollections of the night before flooded back to her and through the bleary haze of her hangover tore an overpowering sense of dread.

"Oh gods, no!" she pleaded.

For a while she fixed her gaze on the circlet, not daring to look anywhere else. In this way she could postpone for a few precious moments, before facing the reality of what she had just done. Yet distant torchlight caught the small metal object that sealed her fate. She lifted her left hand to stare at it and her breath caught in horror.

Beside her lay Skie, eyes closed and at peace. Freya whimpered in panic and backed away, shaking her head. The after effects of the alcohol left her dizzy, and by the time she had struggled into her clothes, dawn had come and she could hear people moving about the castle. She donned her armour too. She would need it when Skie's father found out about this.

Then there was nothing for it but to face the others. She stumbled up the stairs and into the main hall where her companions were stirring in their sleeping bags. Some had sat up and got as far as rooting around for breakfast. Imoen had drunk so much that she was bent over a bucket vomiting. Normally Freya would have found this sight amusing, but not today.

They looked up as the Hero staggered into their midst. She did not look at all like her usual self. Her eyes were sunken, her skin like ash and her blonde hair was plastered to her face.

"What the hells happened to you?" asked Corwin.

"I've done something terrible," said Freya in a frightened, trembling voice quite unlike her own.

"Nothing new there then. You've done plenty of terrible things," sneered Corwin. "And terrible people."

"This is serious," moaned Freya with a small sob. "It's Skie."


	49. The Morning After

"What?" yelled Bence, leaping to his feet.

"What happened?" asked Corwin urgently.

"I'm sorry! Oh gods, I'm so sorry! I don't know how it happened, I was so drunk I can barely remember anything and… and…" Freya whimpered hysterically. There was a loud smacking sound as Corwin hit her, hard.

"Calm down woman! Where is Skie? What did you do!" she demanded, seizing the werewolf by her collar and bellowing in her face.

Silence fell on the hall, just as Arrow and Rasaad appeared at the doorway. The Harpers were rising to their feet and Imoen lifted her face out of the bucket in concern. They all looked at Freya, trembling and pathetic like a dog left out in the rain. There was no trace of her cocky bravado now. Whatever she had done, it must be terrible.

"I married her."

There was a collective intake of breath, and then a splutter. Captain Corwin's determined professionalism was finally broken and she was no longer able to maintain a straight face. With the exception of Bence, who looked like he'd been handed his own death warrant, everybody collapsed into hysterics.

"It isn't funny!" wailed Freya, "We were married by a cleric, it was witnessed and consummated. This is legally binding!"

"Ha! Ha! Haaaaa…" Corwin doubled over clutching her ribs. Part of her didn't find it funny at all. The part which had grown romantically attached to Freya was raging against her chest, wanting to knife the pair of them. Yet there was another, more sensible side of Corwin, that had always recognized the Hero for the arsehole she was. For now, it was the second part which prevailed, breathless with glee that the stupid woman had ruined her own life.

"I know isn't it romantic?" giggled Skie. She came practically bouncing through the door and latched onto Freya's arm. Freya looked desperately around the room, silently pleading for help.

"So romantic!" gasped Corwin, tears rolling down her cheeks. "You two are perfect for each other." She looked into the werewolf's grey eyes and told her sincerely, "Oh Freya. You so, so, so deserve this."

"See?" Arrow said to Rasaad under her breath. "Told you there'd be something."

"This doesn't seem so very bad, compared to their usual standards," Rasaad said sanguinely.

Arrow cast him a sideways look. The monk seemed to be standing taller than usual. In fact he was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet and was struggling to suppress a smile. It seemed unlikely that anything would spoil _his_ good mood, but not everyone in the room would agree with him. Freya clearly thought that it did seem so very bad. And she was not the only one.

"My life is over," Bence said in a hollow voice. "The Duke will have me put to death."

And the Duke was on his way. Freya had been in the mood to celebrate last night and, as with Corwin, she had given strict orders that he be kept at a distance. Corwin had felt it best to comply with this order. The Hero was very drunk, very angry and had an army whose loyalty was now entirely her own. A confrontation under those circumstances might have gone very ill indeed for Duke Silvershield.

Or former Duke? She was not sure at the moment. As he made his way toward the castle, the officers were booing and throwing things at him. She had sent four guards to escort him but was beginning to worry that this would not be enough. They too were being pelted with stones and stray pieces of rotten fruit intended for Duke Silvershield. His beleaguered escort looked very much like they would rather be throwing things themselves than protecting him.

His reaction, when Skie and Freya took him down to the alcove was predictable. First every drop of blood drained from his pointed face. He looked from his daughter to daughter-in-law, mouth forming a wide 'O' of horror. As the initial shock wore off, he moved into denial, interrogating them about who the presiding cleric was (Mizhena had done a runner as soon as she saw him coming) and whether the metal bands on their left fingers were properly consecrated. Had they said the right vows? Had it been sealed?

The Hero was as eager to find a loophole as he was. She knew perfectly well that Skie did not love her. That any tiny hope of her ever finding real love and raising a family was rapidly vanishing. Worse, that her freedom was drowning alongside her hope. Spouses of Grand Duchesses were not permitted to go carousing with thieves and brigands like Coran and Safana. Yet Skie had every answer ready. There seemed no escape.

Then came the bargaining stage. The Duke begged to know what it would take to make Freya feign her own death and retire into obscurity in the Dale? Yet she was not minded to do that either and, being far wealthier than her new father-in-law, found that he had nothing she wanted. Guilt followed swiftly on bargaining's heels. He had been a poor father. Allowed Skie far too much freedom. It was his fault she was ruined. Before he had feared that no nobleman would marry her. Now none even _could_ marry her. Not while Freya lived.

Anger was inevitable. Executing Freya would, he reasoned, solve the problem. He drew his ceremonial sword with a mind to take matters into his own hands. But that, of course, was impossible. She was the slayer of dragons and demon kings. He was an aging aristocrat who had lost the support of his people. Making Skie a widow was not one of his options.

Finally, he slumped down in despair and wept great heaving sobs into his hands. Freya was his daughter-in-law, and there was nothing he could do about it. Freya wanted to crumple to the floor and cry with him, but that seemed cruelly insulting to her new bride.

"Our family is ruined!" he lamented. "The Silvershields are finished."

Skie shook her head with a cunning smile and pulled her broken father to his feet. She looked from her wife to the Duke and sighed in irritation at the pair of them. Then she stuck her head around the door, called for a towel and a basin of water, and set about making her family presentable.

"You might want to reconsider that statement," said Skie slyly, wiping the rotten fruit off of her father's arm with the hem of her dress. "I know you think I'm an idiot but look at the state of you! The people were on the verge of kicking our family out of Baldur's Gate. Now watch this!"

She linked arms with her furious father on the left and Freya on the right and firmly steered the reluctant duo to the front gates of the castle. The troops roared, but it was a very different tone to the din they were making on the Duke's way in.

They had heard of the Hero's victory but there had not been enough alcohol to go around. Not enough for the entire army to get very drunk the night before. They were not hungover and were eager for what the new day would bring. Rows of officers had assembled like red ants outside the castle. Each one was keen for a short speech from their beloved Bitch of Baldur's Gate. Preferably followed swiftly by the order to go home and collect their pay. The sight of her now, even flanked by the hated Duke, gave rise to thunderous applause.

"Huh," said Duke Silvershield, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

"She's the richest person in Baldur's Gate too," Skie pointed out, taking advantage of the noise to whisper to him without Freya hearing. "Do wave to the people Daddy. I know! Why don't you pretend you're waving goodbye to all our money problems? Because you are."

The Duke raised his hand cautiously. He had long got out of the habit, since any public appearance these days was an opportunity for heckling and ridicule. Yet they were clapping him. Not as loudly as when Freya waved, but they _were_ clapping him. He had almost forgotten what that felt like.

"Ok, now here we go," whispered Skie excitedly, with a twinkle in her eye. She raised her hands for silence and the people quietened down expectantly.

"The war is over!" she called to them. "The crusade is crushed, the portal to Avernus closed forever thanks to my beloved Freya and my father has one more announcement to make!" She stepped back and wrapped her arms possessively around Freya's waist. Many faces among the watching soldiers lit up eagerly, and the Quartermaster nudged the young lad who had found Jayvis's head. Rumours of this match had been circling for ages, and the event they had been rooting for seemed to have finally taken place. The hushed excitement was tangible. "Go on Daddy, they'll love it!" Skie urged him in a whisper.

"I am delighted to announce," Duke Silvershield said. Then he paused as if he were struggling to get the distasteful words out. The crowd started to murmur. He took a deep breath and resigned himself. "I am delighted to announce the marriage of my only child, Skie Silvershield, to Sergeant Freya Candlekeep of the Flaming Fist, the Hero of Baldur's Gate!"

The applause was so rapturous and went on so long that even Freya started to perk up a little bit.

Herded by Skie, who kept a very firm grip on both of them, the Duke and the Hero walked down the steps together. The ecstatic cheering from the army was deafening and the adoration enough to turn anybody's head. Although they were both being dragged along by Skie like a pair of prize poodles, both her father and spouse seemed to be warming to their new situation.

"Long live the Grand Duke! Long live the Silvershields!"

"Congratulations Duke Silvershield!"

"Drink if you love the Bitch of Baldur's Gate lads!"

"May the gods smile on you mi'lords!"

"I'd say that Silvershield family rule is safe for another generation, wouldn't you?" Skie asked smugly. She seemed extremely pleased with herself, as well she might be. In one move she had confounded her family's enemies, secured a lifetime's fortune and escaped the rule of her father.

Duke Silvershield was looking at his daughter with a strange expression of mingled horror and admiration, as if he were seeing her properly for the first time.

"I… underestimated you," the Duke admitted.

"Thanks Dad!" grinned Freya, giving her new father-in-law a playful shove. Her vast ego was being suitably stroked and petted by the love of the people, and she was starting to regain her spirits.

"I wasn't talking to you!" he snarled threateningly, grabbing her by the wrist. "You are on probation! I still haven't decided whether or not to behead you yet."

"And you can have this back now," Skie smiled, placing Hephernaan's circlet onto her new wife's head. As the magical artefact took effect and her intelligence rose a fraction, the horrible reality of the situation she had landed herself in hit Freya once more. She screwed up her eyes, willing it to be a bad dream.

She could run. Grab Coran and Safana and make a break for it, but then what? Where would that leave Skie? She would be a noblewoman in Baldur's Gate who was neither married nor single. Any children she had in Freya's absence would be automatically illegitimate.

" _It wasn't her fault,"_ Freya reasoned, incorrectly. _"She was as drunk as I was. I can't ruin her life by abandoning her. She's my wife."_

Worse there was Irenicus, still waiting out there. With her weapons, armour and experience she might, _might_ be able to take him in a fight. Was she confident enough of that to want to leave the Flaming Fist? No.

"Smile for the people!" Skie hissed in her ear. "There's a good girl."

Freya bared her shining white teeth, forced her lips upward and complied.

Not long after the order was given that the soldiers had been aching for. They were to go home. In good spirits with victory behind them, loot in their pockets and surprisingly few casualties, they began the long march. Freya trotted on ahead in wolf-form. It saved her having to pretend to be happy, since nobody could read her canine expression. Skie was accosted by Viconia at the first opportunity. She was deeply impressed by what the young human had done, it was almost worthy of a drow. Moreover, she could see that continuing to enjoy Freya's protection hinged on her new wife's goodwill, and she wished to secure her place in the new order as swiftly as possible.

Corwin meanwhile was talking to the Duke. He was sitting brooding on one of the catapult carts (Skie had commandeered his horse) and the Captain rode up alongside him.

"I'm sorry about all this mi'lord," she said, though she was still struggling to keep a straight face. Freya had promised not to demote her, and despite her earlier rudeness to Skie, she trusted the werewolf to keep her word. Skie had needed her out of the way so that she could marry Freya, but she had what she needed now. The Hero was hers. There was no need for the young aristocrat to come after Corwin.

Despite now rather regretting some of the things she had said to Skie, she was reasonably confident that she could make nice with the girl eventually. Even if she couldn't, her share of the dragon's horde was enough that she did not really need her job anymore. She was no longer afraid for the future. The city, it seemed, would be pulled back from the brink of civil war. Little Rohma had not lost her mother in battle. Her material situation was infinitely better than it had been at the start of this expedition.

"I don't hold your lot responsible," said the Duke silkily. His fingers laced as he spoke and a sneer was curling on his lips that Corwin did not like. "And to show I bear no ill will, I am assigning my beloved new daughter-in-law personal command of the Flaming Fist. It will doubtless be my last act as Grand Duke. I have a feeling I am about to be forced into early retirement. Yes, Freya will replace me as Commander. The rank _above_ yours."

Corwin stopped laughing abruptly.

"Sir, if I might beg you to reconsider..."

"I think not," smiled Silvershield, his voice quivering. "What better way to express my... gratitude... to the Fist for their role in bringing this marriage about?"


	50. Finally, the Witch Dies!

The streets were dusty and deserted on the morning of Arrow's return to Baldur's Gate. The Northern Quarter had been abandoned in favour of the main bridge in, as thousands flocked to watch the Hero's triumphant return. She, Rasaad and the Harpers had preferred a more discrete entrance. A dog guarding a row of horses started barking at them, making her jump. At the end of the cobbled street, a pair of small children were taking advantage of the grownups' absence to scavenge through the trash cans. They scattered when they saw the party coming.

It signalled Arrow's parting of ways with Minsc, who could not fathom why she did not want to join in the victory parade. Arrow could picture him now, holding Boo aloft to see the cheering people. Judging by the excited rumbling, which was audible even from this distance, the celebrations must be deafening. Presumably Dorn was with him, since Dynaheir was. After discussing the matter with her parents and Rasaad, Arrow had politely but firmly bid him farewell as soon as they were in sight of the city walls. The half-orc had accepted this surprisingly readily. In fact, far from being offended, he seemed relieved.

"Farewell Little Lamb. For now," he rumbled, proffering his hand for her to shake. Rasaad's eyes narrowed and Arrow allowed his hand to envelope hers only hesitantly. Her eyes were fixed on Rancor the whole time for fear that he might try to press it into her hand again, but it was only a handshake. No visions of burning drow cities or pleading clerics.

"Forever," corrected Rasaad. His intense, dark eyes fixed on Dorn. Before returning to the city, under the pretence of meditation, Freya had pulled him to one side to plan what was to be done about the Blackguard. The young monk who had disembarked in Athkatla from Calimport would never have agreed to this underhanded scheme. Yet the half-orc was preying on both Arrow and the Servant of all Faiths, and the line between right and wrong here was blurred. He could not delude himself that Viconia or Freya had the least intention of letting him live. On the other hand where was the honour in failing to protect Dorn's would-be victims?

Arrow had great reason for cheer and trepidation. The source of her happiness, aside from Rasaad, was a strange event that had taken place as they made their way around the edge of the city. They'd broken away from the main army who had paused a few hours march from the city. The officers had to wash and polish their armour. Nobody wanted to see fatigued, war-weary soldiers in their celebratory parade. Jaheira's small party had come on ahead, under the cooling shadow of the city walls, along a littered road used mainly by tradesmen.

Alone, and without the protection of Freya or the Flaming Fist, they had come face to face with Irenicus. He was wandering down the grubby road (which served as a toilet and transitory garbage dump for the Northern Quarter) in broad daylight. His hood was up, as always, but there could be no mistaking the bolts on his hands and the stretched skin of his face. He had seen Arrow, there could be no doubt of it. Panic had flooded her at the sight of him and as Khalid drew his sword and Jaheira transformed into a bear, she shot at him.

"Do not be tiresome," Irenicus had replied indifferently, as the arrow dissolved harmlessly a foot from his heart. "You barely possess a shred of your father's essence. You are of no use to me. Begone."

And there it was.

Cautiously, and without replacing their weapons, they had edged past him and walked on. It was a surreal experience. Yet Irenicus paid them no more heed and continued toward the Eastern gate without a backward glance. Presumably to resume stalking her more powerful sister.

"Should we do something?" Arrow asked doubtfully, as they watched him vanish around a bend in the road. She had always thought of him as simply appearing, like the avatar of some wicked god. Watching him do something as normal as taking a stroll was slightly surreal. Yet, she supposed, he must. And eat, sleep and shit, just like everybody else.

"Any s- s- suggestions?" asked Khalid.

Nobody had any. There was nothing, whatsoever, that their party could do to defend Freya. Arrow against Irenicus would be like an earthworm trying to savage a tiger. Even warning her half-sister would be pointless. She already knew that he was after her. Besides, the Freya returning to the city was not the undisciplined rogue who had left. She'd had training and better weapons and armour. This Hero had fought a dragon and a demon lord and won. Even without the army, which was now entirely her own, her battle with the Hooded Man would no longer be an unequal fight.

It meant, simply, that Arrow was free. Her weakness was her strength, because Irenicus had lost interest in her. She would not have to return to the Ducal Palace but could stay anywhere in the city that she chose. Better yet, she could leave Baldur's Gate. She had not decided where exactly to go yet. Her preference would be the job waiting for her in the Cloud Peak mountains, but it seemed unlikely that Rasaad would ever wish to return there. No doubt he would want to go to Calimport, but she did not enjoy city life. They would need to compromise.

The source of her trepidation, therefore, was not Irenicus but a visit that she felt obliged to pay now that the war was over. Somewhere in this sprawling city, Glint's mother must have a thousand questions as to why her son had died. Arrow had not been able to put all of her thoughts in a letter, for fear of it being read by the wrong people. She trusted that Coran had delivered it for her, despite his misgivings.

Rasaad immediately expressed a desire to check on the Iron Throne refugees who had once been his charges. Arrow encouraged him. It was an opportunity for her to visit the Elfsong tavern without him and leave a message for Coran. He was the only lead she had to find Mrs Gardnersonson, but she knew that Rasaad would not approve. Not of her seeing the elf and even less of her visiting the rebellious old gnome.

Her parents came with her, but before she could think of a way to shake them, they were greeted by an old friend. Bernard was rolling kegs labelled 'Nashkel Taverns: Bespoke Hand-Crafted Ale" from a groaning cart and down into the Elfsong's cellars.

"Oh look. It is Bernard. What a coincidence this is," said Arrow, in a mechanically sarcastic way. "He definitely did not come to a prearranged meeting place when he heard that we'd come back. I will go inside so that you can catch up on old times and absolutely not discuss any secret Harper business."

Jaheira rolled her eyes and shook her head, while Khalid smiled and cuffed his daughter playfully on the back of the head. Arrow hurried inside to leave a message for Coran. Khalid loosened his armour and began to help Bernard heaving the barrels. The hatch to the cellar had a long ramp running down it that the kegs could be rolled into. Jaheira leaned against the side of the cart, watching them bouncing away into the gloom.

"Well?" There was nobody around to hear them but she whispered anyway. Bernard glanced about him nervously, leaned his ruddy face close to theirs and replied.

"Our people caught Hephernaan's acolytes and the cure you sent back solved the dysentery problem," he whispered. "But not before it made the political one a whole lot worse. Killed a lot of good people. The Chapel of Ilmater is nothing but a tomb, but nobody dared go in to collect the infected bodies so they just boarded it up. Badly handled by the Dukes that was, and that's not all of it. Executing that gnome, Glint, was a mistake. He was a good lad. Popular. Harmless. He's become a sort of figurehead now. The rebels are calling themselves the Blue Beards after him. I don't give Duke Silvershield another month."

"You're behind the times," said Jaheira grimly. "He's been replaced already."

Bernard glanced nervously about the slated rooftops of the tightly packed shops. They were mostly closed for the occasion with the exception of the gnomish apothecary, who never shut their doors, and the cobblers who were expecting a rush of returning soldiers in need of mended boots. A ragged alley cat whose ginger coat was caked in filth watched him malevolently, but other than that the street was abandoned.

"Replaced? What are you talking about?" frowned Bernard. "He's leading the Flaming Fist back into the city as we speak."

"W- w- well he hasn't been r- replaced exactly," Khalid stammered. "More sort of s- succeeded."

"His daughter Skie has married Freya," Jaheira explained. "Without her father's permission. The Hero is even more popular with the Flaming Fist now than she was when they left."

"And here!" Bernard cut in. "Everyone credits her for defeating the Crusade and for the dysentery cure."

"She could rule in her own right were it not for the fact that she's as thick as a brick. Her new wife rules her. Skie's father is Grand Duke in name only now."

There was another whooping cheer from somewhere beyond the lofty stone pillars of the Hall of Wonders. The Innkeep-turned-brewer rather regretted not being able to join in the festivities, but the Harpers came first. The crowds had flocked like migrating birds all morning, emptying this half of the city. Some carried bags of flower petals to throw to the returning army. A small girl riding atop her father's shoulders had been clutching a toy golden puppy. It seemed to be the must-have toy of the season. Bernard paused and scratched his chins.

"Seems to me," he said slowly, "That this Skie could be an improvement?"

"That remains to be seen," said Jaheira coolly.

"She's s- s- smarter than her father, that much is c- certain," said Khalid.

"That's not difficult," began Bernard. "Our mutual friend… you know… _Elminster…"_

"Yes, we got it Bernard," sighed Jaheira, getting a little irate. "You could have stopped at 'our mutual friend' and we would have understood you, but go on."

"Well. He said to me; 'at this point, Bernard, competence will suffice' all posh like he does," Bernard whispered. "The balance is in danger. Duke Silvershield can't maintain the peace, but if the Blue Beards take over there'll be anarchy in Baldur's Gate. Then who takes advantage of the power vacuum?"

"Best case scenario; Amn," agreed Jaheira. "They'll swoop in and seize the undefended lands and before long dominate the entire Sword Coast. That's the best outcome. At worst…"

The Harpers fell silent as their minds drifted to what the Zhentarim and Thay would do to an undefended Baldur's Gate. Grand Duchess Silvershield was infinitely preferable. Though she may not prove a very nice ruler, she was shaping up to be a capable one.

Later that evening in the Ducal Palace Skie, still attention-drunk from their victory parade, began planning their next public engagement in earnest. There would have to be a second wedding, a public and very grand one. Already she was sketching designs for commemorative plates onto her father's crockery and eyeing Freya up for a flowing white wedding gown. Freya winced. She _could_ pull off dresses. With her charisma she could pull off a turnip sack if push came to shove. Yet she was muscular, graceless and decidedly uneffeminate. Wearing skirts and dresses made her feel… uneasy.

"You get to wake up to this every day. For the rest of your life," Corwin reminded her in a smug whisper, as Skie started speculating over whether lace or satin roses would best disguise Freya's broad shoulders. The werewolf sagged, defeated.

She wandered dejectedly along the length of Silvershield's long oak banqueting table, running her hands over the tops of the chairs. They'd done a good job of repairing his furniture from when she'd ripped off a leg to bludgeon Caelar's hired assassins. It felt like a lifetime ago.

At the end of the table hung a huge portrait of a sweet doe-eyed bard. _She_ had no difficulty in pulling off a dress. With her soft smile and long, delicate fingers brushing her harp she was the personification of feminine elegance. Maire Silvershield. The Grand Duchess whose existence had done so much for every gay citizen of Baldur's Gate who'd come after her.

" _Except me, ironically,"_ thought Freya. For Maire was the reason that her marriage to Skie was unbreakable. Maire's descendants, conceived with the aid of Bhaal's belt, had been numerous and married into every noble house in the city. By the time she'd died and the secret of the girdle was discovered, there wasn't an aristocrat in power whose legitimacy wouldn't be called into question if the validity of her marriage was in doubt. The nobility of Baldur's Gate would never permit a marriage like Freya and Skie's to be questioned. Annulment? Unthinkable. A cleric could be executed for even suggesting it.

Freya wondered what Maire would have thought of her, or of Bhaal-reincarnated, marrying into her family. She'd probably have been almost as dismayed as the old Duke Silvershield would have felt knowing that she was now also head of the Flaming Fist. As the Silvershields' painted eyes stared accusingly down at their unworthy heir, Glint's harsh words echoed in her head.

_"Can't you just try to be... better?"_

"I guess I'm going to have to be aren't I?" Freya muttered to the portrait. She sighed resignedly. "Bugger."

She frowned, remembering Viconia and Rasaad, and padded toward the door. Being better was going to have to start tomorrow. There was something unpleasant that needed attending to first. As she neared the exit, her wife hurried forward, seized her thick forearm and hissed in her ear so that Corwin would not hear.

"Where are you going?" demanded Skie.

"Viconia has been gone for a while," Freya replied. "It's time."

"Have fun," said Skie sourly. "Try not to make a mess."

"I'll make sure the 'mess' finds its way into the sewers when we're done my dear," promised Freya, "Though I'm damned sorry for any sewer worker that stumbles across him. I know dealing with bad smells is kind of in their job description, but even their tolerance must have its limits."

"Do what you need to do," said Skie. "But don't take any risks."

"There's no risk," growled Freya, feeling the handle of Sarevok's blade. "I just killed a demon lord on his own turf. I can handle one of their Blackguards."

In another part of the city, in the Three Old Kegs, Minsc was still celebrating. He had let the crowd attempt to carry him, got up and walked when they inevitably failed, and was now drinking the tavern dry. Boo was slurping ale from a saucer with his tiny pink tongue. The hamster was receiving so many strokes from the fingers of his fans that he might as well be a piano. Minsc was standing atop a table, singing an old Rashemen shanty between swigs of ale. It was rather rude, although Dynaheir's innocent bodyguard did not realise this. The part about the lonely old shepherd riding his goat got an especially loud laugh, though Minsc had no idea why. He'd always found the story rather tragic.

His companions were paying him little attention. They had settled themselves in a secluded, dimly lit corner of the tavern. Once they'd finished their meal, the best they'd had in weeks, they found a way to entertain themselves. Dorn was sitting back in his seat, apparently relaxed, but every so often his face twitched. Dynaheir had her hand concealed under the table and was stroking him through his clothes. He was just about to suggest that they retire for the night when a barmaid bustled happily over to their table.

"Be somewhere else, wench!" Dorn growled, darkly.

The barmaid giggled nervously, her large bosom heaving. It was usually better to play the dumb flirt with customers like this. Inside she was yearning to upend the orc's mead over his insolent head, and inform him that he and his girlfriend were not being half as subtle as they thought they were. Yet he looked ill-tempered and her boss would fire her, so she was forced to tolerate his rudeness.

"Mr Dorn Il-Khan?" she trilled.

"Who wishes to know?" he rumbled.

"There's a lady wants to speak to you outside," she replied. Then she smiled and snatched his tankard from under his nose. "And let me refill that for you while you're gone, Sir." Before he could reply, she was dashing back through the throng around the bar and out the back door. She might have warned him that the woman was a drow, a dark elf from the underworld, but she didn't. Let the rude, ignorant customer take his chances!

"Thou should'st not have called her a wench," Dynaheir warned him archly. "See how she goes in the direction of the privy and not the bar? Thou will be drinking her piss for the rest of the night."

"I have drunk worse," Dorn countered. He gestured to his groin which was bulging in a very obvious way from Dynaheir's stroking. "I cannot go out in this state." Dynaheir smiled. For a vicious, murderous Blackguard, Dorn was surprisingly prudish.

"Finish thine piss-ale. I will go and see what they want," she sighed. "If it is not urgent I shall tell them to return tomorrow."

The tavern door opened to a bustling street. Anticipating that everything would return to normal with Caelar defeated, food had been brought out of stashes and the people were feasting. Already chicken bones, crumbs and spilled gravy were crunching underfoot. They would be ground into the horse manure and slurry of the city streets, which were already almost fertile enough to grow crops in. Carts were being loaded up with ragged families, clutching their bony children. Many of the refugees were eager to return home and assess the damage to their farms and homes.

As Dynaheir stepped out into the street there was a flicker of movement above her. Her eyes turned up sharply, but it was merely a servant beating a rug out the window with a broad stick. She relaxed and looked about her for the messenger who had asked for Dorn. She did not have to look far.

"Thou!" she screeched, in fury and alarm. She had hoped, with the war over, that she had finally seen the back of the scheming drow. Dynaheir had never forgiven nor forgotten the fact that Viconia once assisted Edwin in trying to murder her. At once she began weaving protective magics. Within seconds Viconia found herself looking at not one, but five mirror-imaged witches, each surrounded by a blue defensive orb.

"How many times do I have to tell you that I mean you no harm!" Viconia protested. Her weapons were sheathed, her hands open and there were no protective spells on her that the witch could detect. It certainly didn't _look_ as though she had come to fight. Yet Dynaheir knew better than to trust her.

"Thou trieth to murder me!" Dynaheir hissed.

"Only once, because I had a bargain with Edwin!" Viconia sighed impatiently. It felt to her like they had been over this a thousand times. All she had done was try to assassinate Dynaheir for personal gain. Where she came from this was as normal as a handshake, and she had never understood why the witch had taken it so personally. "And Edwin is dead! Besides, he and I had ceased working together long before your pet brute finished him off. Where is Dorn by the way?"

"Good question, let's bring him forth shall we?" Dynaheir retorted threateningly. "DORN!"

"I simply bring a message," said Viconia, crisply. Things were going wrong. She had intended to get Dorn on his own and charm him into coming with her. A powerful enchantress like Dynaheir would not be charmed, and would likely attack Viconia the instant she attempted it. "Freya wants to see you. You, Minsc and Dorn." She would have to find a way to shake the Rashemen later.

"What for?" asked Dynaheir, suspiciously.

"I assume she wishes to make her peace before you depart for Rashemen or wherever you are going next," said Viconia. "You did travel together for a long time. You slew Sarevok together. I know how sentimental you surfacers can get about such things."

Her improvised lying was not very convincing.

"Come with me," Viconia smiled sweetly.

"No," Dynaheir refused. "Thou did not ask for all three of us, thou asked specifically for Dorn."

"I simply wished to speak to him first… to prepare you… to speak to me," Viconia replied demurely. "I know you do not like me."

"So what thou art trying to say is that Freya asked thee to ask Dorn to ask me to come to her?" Dynaheir sneered. "I think not. If the Hero wanted to speak to me she would simply do so. Thine lies make no sense. DORN!" she screamed again loudly.

Viconia snarled with rage, but the game was up. She turned and fled into the bustling street. The witch would not dare risk sending a spell hurtling into the middle of all these commoners. Dynaheir watched her go with narrowed eyes until she was lost in the crowd. Then, there it was! That flicker of movement again.

There, perched in the gutters, was a hooded wizard. She could tell that he was a wizard by the faint aura of magical protection that shimmered around him. It was, of course, Irenicus, but Dynaheir knew little about him and it was not his name that sprang to her mind first. As far as she knew he had no reason to come after her, but there was another wizard who did. One associated with the woman to whom she had just been talking.

"Edwin!" she spat, as the hooded wizard chanted some incantation and her defensive spells melted away. "But how? You were supposed to be dead!"

"Guess again, Princess," a woman's voice whispered in her ear. Dynaheir turned to see a young woman with dark purple hair and a rounded, pretty face. Something sharp was pricking into her abdomen. Looking down she saw the point of a dagger, with a gem at its hilt. It seemed to glow with its own inner light, and for the briefest of moments she thought she saw a human face within it. "Edwin is alive and well… unlike you."

Pain flooded through Dynaheir as the dagger pierced her gut. She had been so preoccupied with the wizard on the roof, that she never saw his accomplice coming. The thief pulled her dagger out sharply, but instead of fleeing the scene of the crime she stood still, expectantly. There were screams in the street. Some commoners rushed forward to help as Dynaheir crumpled. Others fled in panic. All were hollering for the Flaming Fist but before they could arrive, the purple-haired assassin was spirited away by a teleportation spell.

Dynaheir's eyes turned back to the rooftop but the wizard was gone. He must have teleported them both away. The ease with which Edwin had lowered her defences! She had never suspected that the Red Wizard had that kind of power. Perhaps he didn't. Maybe he really was dead and Thay had sent a more powerful replacement? The door to the Three Old Kegs burst open and Dorn came to her, sword drawn, but it was too late. The witch let out a wail of despair. That dagger, it was Edwin's. Soultaker. She felt her soul being drawn out now, even as a healing potion was poured down her throat.

"It was her!" Dynaheir cried. She began to doubt that the wizard was Edwin. This assassination had, after all, been competent. Yet there was one name she was sure of; "Viconia. She lured me out here."

"Do not worry. If you die, the temples will revive you," Dorn cried. But Dynaheir felt her essence slipping away even as her physical form mended. The dagger was claiming her. There was no pain but she felt strangely disconnected from her own body. The world around her began to grow dim and distant.

"Thou hast to kill her for me," she gasped. Her life was over and her soul headed not to the afterlife but to the hilt of that evil dagger. Revenge was all she had left now.

"That, I fear, will prove impossible," Dorn muttered in a low voice. "The Hero defends her, and the army. My patron will not empower me if I abandon my mission for the sake of a lover."

"He will empower thee for this!" Dynaheir gasped. Dorn leaned down to the witch as she wrenched against the pull of Soultaker long enough to spit out her last words. "Viconia is the Servant of all Faiths!"

Dorn slowly lowered Dynaheir to the ground. Her heart still beat and her chest rose and fell, but she was gone. A few moments later a drunken Minsc would come out of the tavern. At first he would not realise what was wrong, think her under a spell or fatigued and return her to her room. The bystanders would tell him about the attack, and that Dorn had rescued her and was hunting down her assailants. By morning it would be apparent that she was seriously unwell. He would carry her to the temple of Helm, be told that she was gone, but refuse to believe their words!

From temple to temple Minsc would carry his still-breathing witch. They all shook their heads sadly and repeated the same thing. They could offer no aid or solace. Her soul was gone. Then for days he would wash her, chew her food and poke it into the back of her unresponsive mouth. Slowly, drop by drop he would dribble water down her throat. He would tell her stories, like she used to do for him, watching hopefully for any response. None of his friends could help, nor do anything but watch in horror as her unoccupied body wasted away over the following weeks until, finally, it died.

The Blackguard, however, was there for none of this. Obeying Dynaheir's last request and the will of his patron, he was storming through the city in search of Viconia.


	51. Death to the Chosen One

Viconia did not prove hard to find. There was only one drow in the city, the streets had been crowded and the human citizens had no qualms about selling her out. Dorn caught sight of her a few streets away. The silver top of her head could just be glimpsed amongst the throng.

Directly in front of him the Flaming Fist were reuniting with their families. A pair of small children carrying stuffed Labrador toys darted between his legs screaming _'Daddy! Daddy!'_ A nervous young man clutching a bunch of flowers scanned the returning officers for his long-awaited lover. Closest to Dorn, a spectacled old lady was squinting into the lines of red uniforms trying to pick out her grandson. Her gums split into a toothless smile when she found him waving at her excitedly and pushing through the crowd to reach her.

As the young man crossed Dorn's path, he found himself blocked by an arm so thick it might as well have been an iron bar. The half-orc threw him backward, causing his Nan to wail and clutch her heart. Her young soldier sprang to his feet, livid, and his fellow officers stepped forward, their hands on their swords.

"Out of my way!" Dorn bellowed, but the Fist seemed ready for a brawl. Then an idea struck him. Viconia had the protection of the Grand Dukes, not to mention Freya. It was why the drow could now stroll around the city undisguised. Yet it was no secret that these soldiers had not been paid and there was some doubt as to whether they were ever going to be. He reached into his gem bag and drew out a handful of glittering treasures.

These were opals and topaz, and the coins mostly silver. Not the sort of rewards one might pick up from hanging around in Freya's orbit, but enough to get their attention. He hurled them to his left and right, into the gutters by the pavement. At once the people rushed to gather them up. It left the middle of the road almost clear, save for Viconia.

She saw him and he grinned menacingly. There was no humour in it. He had always intended to slay the Servant of all Faiths if he could, but that had been an instruction from his patron, not personal. Viconia, however, had possibly killed his lover and his veins throbbed with rage. Though he and Dynaheir had never thought of each other as potential life-mates, he had been fond of the witch. She had died asking him for vengeance and he meant to provide it in the most gruesome manner he could think of. Starting with removing those hateful ruby eyes.

Viconia knew nothing of Dynaheir's death but she read his expression and ran. There could be no doubt from his evil leer that he knew who she was. The Blackguard had taken on an entire camp full of Caelar's soldiers just to slay a _follower_ of the Servant of all Faiths. Nothing but his death would keep him from her now. She fled and he followed.

The short-sighted, frail old woman picked her way carefully across the road to where her grandson was brushing himself off. He glared after Dorn with a furious expression but decided to let it go. He'd had enough of fighting and adventures for one lifetime. No point getting himself killed now, when life was just starting to get good.

"Aren't you going to join your little friends?" his Nan asked, hugging him. "Those gems the orc dropped have to be worth a few days rent."

"Rent won't be a problem no more Nan," the boy promised. It wouldn't. Not with Freya's rogue stone stitched safely into the lining of his jacket. He'd sell it and buy them one of those nice merchant houses, the sort with a shop on the ground floor. He hadn't decided _what_ to sell yet but without any rent to pay he wouldn't need to make a huge profit. He'd replace his Nan's wooden stool with one of those comfortable posh-people chairs. The sort with embroidery and stuffing. Maybe, once he'd got everything sorted, he'd find himself a nice Missus. He smiled, and looked about his city, feeling nothing but goodwill toward the world. "Come on home Nan, I've got something to tell you*."

The sun was setting over Baldur's Gate as Viconia raced down Merchant's Row. Glowing orange light reflected off their slated rooves and pretentious coats of arms, each a tradesman's copy of the class above them. Three mackerel leaping over an oyster for the fishmongers, scrolls, pens and tomes for the bookseller's shield. Gradually, people were starting to retreat indoors and the streets were emptying. One by one, oil lamps were lit behind wood panelled windows giving each house a warm welcoming glow.

Behind her crashed Dorn, knocking down bystanders into the filthy street and ignoring their yelps of protest. He came to a cart just recently emptied of kegs and vaulted into it instead of going around. The horses whinnied in fright and bolted, causing a portly gentleman to come pelting out of the cellar to catch them. The runaway cart clattered away into the crowd causing a small stampede as people fell over each other to get out of its path.

Around the next corner, Viconia saw three familiar figures, but did not stop to ask them for help. Nor were the 'Treehuggers' as she spitefully nicknamed them inclined to offer assistance. She looked back to see Dorn gaining on her, her silver hair whipping about her face. Her former travelling companions watched indifferently as her feet hammered down an alleyway, with Dorn in hot pursuit.

"Looks like somebody told Dorn who the Servant of all Faiths is," observed Jaheira, with a tone of zero concern.

"I do hope it will be a fight to the death," Arrow sighed wistfully.

"That's n- n- not nice Arrow," Khalid reprimanded her, but without conviction.

A death match seemed likely. Viconia was trying to cast as she ran; first Armour of Faith, then her flaming sword and then blessings, aids, whatever might help her survive in the hopelessly unequal fight. Yet these spells were slowing her down. She reached the docks as a chill wind picked up from the sea, howling between the rooftops. A loud and sudden creak from one of the anchored vessels distracted her and she lost her footing. Her ankle slipped on a piece of wet seaweed, and she fell face-down.

With a roar of triumph Dorn was upon her, Rancor raised to draw blood. She lifted her own sword to parry him and screamed. She was not the only one. Distracted, Dorn looked toward the seawall. Sailors and dock men were cursing and pointing at the water. Some of the more experienced ones had dropped their ropes and crates and were fleeing inland.

A sudden, vast wave had appeared from nowhere. It was so out of place in the otherwise choppy water that it was as though the sea itself had lifted a hand. It surged over the seawall, sending nearby ships smashing into each other in its wake and broke over Dorn. The Blackguard was knocked from his feet. He got up dripping, shaking himself off like a great hound and charged Viconia again.

As though in response, a second wave of froth and brine emerged from the sea. This time there could be no mistaking it for coincidence. The projection of water carefully positioned itself between Dorn and Viconia, then lashed backward like a whip. It threw the half-orc back several feet, leaving the cleric bone-dry. She scrambled to her feet. The wind was getting stronger now and she wished she had thought to tie her hair back. Sailors swarmed like ants over the ships which had been slammed together. They were pointing at Dorn and Viconia and yelling.

"It's the bloody Sea Bitch!" bellowed one captain to another. "She's either cursed the half-orc or she favours that drow he's chasing."

"We'd best drown him quick!" agreed his fellow skipper. "At him lads, for Umberlee before she gets angry and sinks us!"

Dorn cursed as gangplanks were dropped from the sheltering vessels and sailors swung from ropes onto the harbour wall. Hoping that they would slow him down, Viconia scrambled to her feet and took off again. The sun was low in the sky now and the light growing dim. Soon the glow from the windows would be all they would have to see by.

"I don't have time for this!" bellowed Dorn, slicing the head from one unfortunate sailor and gutting a second like a fish, before taking off after her again. Viconia's foot was injured from her fall and she was running too slowly, but if she paused to heal it, she knew that he would be upon her.

"Shar, help me!" she pleaded.

Yet it was not Shar who came to her aid. A vast black cloud blew in on the sea wind, stopping directly over their heads. It clashed alarmingly with the sparse, mellow sunset clouds dotting the rest of the sky. Dorn eyed it suspiciously, and with good reason. With a deafening bang that left both their ears ringing and a blinding flash of light, a thunderbolt sizzled from the cloud, directed straight at him.

This would have been the end of the half-orc had he not had a powerful patron of his own. A red globe of demonic light encased him, deflecting the thunderbolt into a nearby building. It took out the wall of the front room with a resounding crash, and there were screams from inside as the roof caught fire. Talos's intervention temporarily disabled both the hunter and his prey. Viconia pulled herself blindly away from the half-orc. Her eyes were burning and her ankle was still killing her. Dorn rubbed his glittering black eyes with huge fists.

He recovered first. Thanks to his patron much of Talos's light had been deflected, and he soon regained his vision. He stumbled toward her relentlessly. Yet before he could reach her the sewers burst open and out scuttled spiders, hundreds of them. Most were tiny, harmless house spiders. A couple were the size of dogs. The street was alive with them as they swarmed over Dorn, enveloping him in black, nipping pincers. He covered his eyes with his hands and he was forced to drop and roll to squash them.

Viconia healed herself, and both sight and ankle recovered. She turned back to gawp at the spiders in disbelief. None of this had been part of the plan. The gods had saved her before. Even before she left the Underdark incidents like this had happened from time to time. It had become more frequent lately, with Cyric's statue squashing his own priestess and Lolth directly intervening to stop Baeloth from sacrificing her. Yet never before had they saved her three times in quick succession like this.

_Run little fly. Do not test our patience!_

Lolth's hideous voice reverberated around her skull, like the rustling of a thousand silk cobwebs. It was far more terrifying than Dorn and run she did. It was also a helpful reminder to her that she had somewhere to run to. None of this madness had been part of her plan, but there _was_ still a plan. Dorn was coming with her, which is what she had intended all along.

Viconia turned away from the harbour and ran North. She was not, she suspected, taking the fastest route. Yet parts of the city were unfamiliar and it seemed sensible to stick with the streets she knew. On she ran, without looking back, past the sturdy stone structures with glass windows and off-road stables. Here the streets were paved and even, but gradually they grew narrower and darker as they gave way to the alleys and slums.

As the sun slipped over the horizon and the last of the daylight faded, she found herself in the poorer part of town. Here the houses were single storey, with no foundation, each housing two or three families crammed together like rats in a nest. It was such a cesspit of weakness and misery, that were it to arise in a drow city it would have been burned to the ground. No wonder the Ilmatari liked to spend so much time here amidst the filth and the wretched. Arrow had, in Viconia's view, done them no favours by trying to keep them alive. In the end she and her do-gooder friends had not even managed that.

The grim spectre of the Chapel of Ilmater loomed before her. No light came from within but the pointed steeple cast a black silhouette against the starry night sky. Around it rose a wall, shielding its small grounds from the street. A sign of Ilmater swung sadly above the gate. The cure for Hephernaan's plague had come too late for this refuge and its unlucky occupants. Their bodies still lay inside, slumped in pools of their own filth. Among the commoners, an unpleasant rumour was circulating that Duke Silvershield had boarded the place up before the last of them had even died.

The stench was strong even at the end of the alley. It struck Viconia that if Freya found this smell as overpowering as the sulphur of Avernus, she might be in real trouble. Or perhaps she already was. Dorn was close now. She did not turn back but she could hear him panting, like she was, from the effort of running so far. With a last burst of effort she sprang for the Chapel. She bolted through its rusty iron gate, small graveyard and up the path, but to her horror the front entrance was still barred.

Dorn followed her in slowly, his face murderous. He did not bother to hurry, for she was cornered now. The door to the Chapel was firmly boarded shut. He stood between her and the gate, and the walls surrounding the Chapel grounds were easily eight-foot tall. Too high for a drow to vault. Viconia's red eyes darted about in the darkness for some hope of salvation, mortal or divine.

" _Freya you swore to protect me, you bitch!"_ she thought panicking. _"And Rasaad? Rasaad where are you?"_ She knew he wasn't hers but deep down, she had not believed that he cared _so little_ about her that he would abandon her to die. Was it possible that more than one Chapel of Ilmater had been boarded up and she had led Dorn to the wrong one? Where were the Selunites? _"Please… please…"_

The slender crescent moon of their goddess shone overhead. Suddenly it was blacked out by Talos's thundercloud which had been following them the whole time. Dorn paused at the gate assessing Viconia's face like a butcher deciding how best to chop up a piece of meat. A tiny hole appeared in the cloud and a single beam of Selune's light shone onto the side of the abandoned building. It lit a side door, hidden in shadow, that was unsealed! At the same instant the holy sign of Ilmater came lose from the chapel gates and dropped onto Dorn's head with a loud clang.

"You cannot be serious?" whispered Viconia. Even Arrow and Rasaad's gods wanted her alive. It had long been apparent that the evil deities of Faerun had some use for her, but she had doubted the good gods. At least until now. But there was no time to lose. The moonlight shone the way to the other entrance where someone had recently ripped the wooden planks off and tossed them aside. She ran through the side door and into a large kitchen area. It was not pleasant. The food had long rotted or been eaten by rats. A connecting door to the main Chapel was closed, but the smell eking from it made her eyes water.

"I hope you had no difficulty finding us," a low Calishite voice whispered from the shadows. Viconia's heart leapt to hear it. "Freya could not… cope with the main hall."

"You wouldn't cope either," came a low growl from the other end of the kitchen. "If you could see what I can smell. We are not going in there."

There was no time to argue the point. Dorn appeared, framed in the doorway. He was huge and strong, with flashing black eyes and monstrous tusks. Even knowing that she had Rasaad and Freya, and the protection of all gods, she still feared Dorn and his demonic patron. The gods had not, after all, succeeded in destroying him outright.

She flattened herself against the back wall and cowered. It had been a long chase. Her flaming sword had burned out, her defensive spells fizzled to nothing.

"Please, I beg of you, leave me alone!" she cried. Normally she would never plead so feebly to an enemy she knew would take no pity. Her wailing was for Rasaad's benefit, not Dorn's. She wanted the half-orc dead, and the moon monk's honour would not permit him to do it unless it was to protect her. "Why are you doing this?"

"YOU DARE?" Dorn roared. "After you murdered Dynaheir, you dare?"

"Dynaheir is dead?" echoed Viconia, dropping her damsel-in-distress act in genuine surprise. "How can she be? I saw her just before you started chasing me!"

In the shadows, Freya froze. Her heart began thumping unpleasantly and she had to suppress a canine whimper.

"You are saying you had nothing to do with the hooded wizard and his assassin?" Dorn enquired. "But you must have done. It was you who lured her out."

"I swear I did not!" replied Viconia loudly. Now it was Freya she was really talking to. The werewolf and Dynaheir had been friends long before she'd met Viconia. Though they had fallen out, she was sure that Freya did not want the witch dead. Oath or no oath she might retaliate if she believed Viconia to be involved.

Freya was thinking no such thing. Dynaheir had guessed, wrongly, that the wizard was Edwin. For the only time in their lives, Freya's guess was smarter. Her gut told her that the wizard Dorn spoke of was Irenicus. Why he had targeted the Rashemen witch, she had no idea, but it made her fearful for her other friends. Best to deal with Dorn quickly and go home.

"It is true… you did not ask to see Dynaheir. She came out on her own," Dorn rumbled thoughtfully. He shrugged. "I believe you." The moonlight from outside glinted off Rancor's blade. A dark energy seemed to emanate from the evil sword, cloaking the Blackguard in demonic power. The red globe of protective light encased him once more. "But whether or not you slew my mate, you are still the Servant of all Faiths and my purpose is to destroy you."

"I truly do not know who killed Dynaheir. She was not my target," Viconia said. She looked up and smiled. "You were."

Once more she summoned her flaming sword, and this time she had no intention of running. A vast golden wolf slunk out from under a table to her right with a vicious snarl. To her left she saw Rasaad emerge from the shadows. Dorn laughed, low and bitter and nodded. He had allowed himself to be duped and now he was outnumbered and, in Freya's case, outmatched.

"Very well. Let us end this."

Viconia slashed at the barrier with her sword, but to her horror the flaming blade dissolved as it passed through it. Rasaad's fists burst into flame and he punched the demonic shield. He almost fell forward with the momentum, for though Selune's flames extinguished at once, his fist carried on as though there were nothing there. Freya leapt forward, jaws wide.

"No!" yelled Rasaad, bursting through the barrier and body slamming her back with all his strength. Freya's hindquarters hit the table and she turned back into a human.

"The hells are you doing?" she bellowed, grey eyes burning furiously.

"You mustn't touch the barrier!" Rasaad cried, springing to his feet and positioning himself between Dorn and Viconia. "It looks like Ur-Gothoz raised it to block _divine_ energy. It unsummoned Viconia's sword and quenched Selune's fire from my fists. What do you think it will do to you?"

"Excellent question," grinned Dorn. "Let us find out, _Bhaalspawn._ "

He hurled himself toward Freya, trying to envelop her in his demon aura. With a yelp, she dodged out of the way, drawing Sarevok's sword as she did so. It clashed with Rancor with a loud clang followed by the sliding screech of metal on metal. Rasaad darted forward and kicked Dorn's kneecap, then hopped back, bouncing on the balls of his feet. It didn't hurt the half-orc. In fact as he fought Freya he barely seemed to notice it. Rasaad kicked his knee again, and again. Every time Dorn tried to take a step, the monk dipped into the fight and gave his knee another tap with his foot.

At first Viconia wondered what the monk was playing at, but Dorn's mounting irritation made it apparent. He was limiting the orc's movement, preventing him from engaging Freya on equal terms or trapping her in the aura.

Dorn, meanwhile, knew that he could not win, but perhaps he could take out the Servant of all Faiths. That would at least earn him some points in the hell that awaited him. He battered Freya's sword aside and charged at Viconia, meaning to stab her through the throat. Abandoning his fancy footwork, Rasaad grappled the half-orc around the middle.

The two men crashed into the door leading to the main Chapel and it splintered inward. There was a chorus of squeaking and more rats than he had ever come across in one place scattered in all directions. They could only tell this from the clicking of their paws against the pews. This chamber of the Chapel was wholly without light. Fast on his feet, Rasaad jumped up again, as the cumbersomely armoured Dorn struggled slowly to stand.

Why wasn't he dead? Freya had more than enough of an opening to finish him while he was down. His orcish nostrils flared. The stench in here was too much even for him. They could slay him here and just walk away. Who would notice one more corpse in this room?

It wasn't just that these people had died, it was how they had died. Nobody had come to clean up the filth. Perhaps this building was past saving. It buzzed faintly with the wings of disturbed flies and the floor was swarming with maggots. Better to just burn it to the ground and start again. His head swam with the overpowering fumes. Why the hells wasn't he dead?

All in all, it took Dorn a good thirty seconds to realise that Freya was incapable of following him in here. In fact as soon as the door opened the werewolf started choking and heaving. Which meant he might have a chance to escape her ambush after all. He turned and ran deeper into the chapel. His feet were slipping in gods-knew-what and the flies he was riling up swarmed so thick that he was practically breathing them in. He built up a momentum and charged the boarded-up front door, bursting through it in a rain of splinters, his arm over his eyes.

He emerged alone in the graveyard, but he could hear feet pounding alongside the building. His pursuers had left by their side door and were coming around the outside of the Chapel. Now what? Freya could transform and catch him up on all fours, so he didn't have long. His only chance, he knew, was to get underground. If she wouldn't follow him into that rancid tomb of a Chapel, she might struggle in the sewers too.

Fortunately for Dorn the path he had to follow was clearly marked. In the early days of the dysentery, while this refuge was still semi-functioning, buckets had been constantly ferried forth between the Chapel and the nearest sewer entrance. Hephernaan's acolytes had not done a particularly neat job. A brown, blood-tinged trail led down the street and into a side-alley where Dorn was able to push aside a manhole grating and jump into the sewer below.

"SHIT!" he heard Freya bellow above him.

Shit was right. He had landed knee deep in it and the tide was rising rapidly. Freya's face appeared in the circle of dim light above, but the werewolf took one sniff and flinched back immediately. Rasaad and Viconia peered in next. There was a ladder running down from the cover, but if either of them dared to use it he would thrust his sword up their backsides. The water surged up to his thighs.

"I do not feel right leaving him to drown," he heard the monk's sanctimonious voice drifting down to him. Dorn made a disgusted sound, and not just because of the filth. Apparently he was not the only one to react so, as a sharp slapping noise indicated that Viconia had hit him.

"He was trying to murder me! _Is_ trying to murder me! Don't you care _even a little?_ " she howled.

"Er… is this a private conversation?" the Hero asked, raising a golden eyebrow at them. Viconia scowled at Freya and her intelligence-boosting circlet. She was not sure she liked Freya with added perceptiveness. It was like having a pet that could suddenly understand you, but remembered all the things you said in front of it when it was still just a dog.

All three faces reappeared at the rim of the manhole just as the water reached Dorn's waist. There was a loud pop and at once his belt inflated. The Blackguard's face split into a wide grin. He had forgotten Arrow's enchanted belt. She had gifted it to him to get into Bridgefort and let him keep it after. This may not be the most dignified escape, but at least he lived to fight another day.

"Seems you get to survive a little longer, Chosen One," mocked Dorn. "But do convey my thanks to the Little Lamb for this useful device. Her present has saved my life."

With a sarcastic little wave at them, he lifted his feet from the floor of the sewer. At once the current swept him away into the darkness, far faster than any of them could swim or follow on foot. He floated down the repulsive underground river in his rubber ring and out of sight.

"Typical of Arowan to let him get away," sneered Viconia. She shot a sideways glance at Rasaad. "Wasn't that belt originally a gift from _you,_ moon male?"

"Yes," replied Rasaad between gritted teeth. Viconia said nothing but a smile played on her lips at the man's angry expression.

"Dynaheir is dead."

Sharran and Selunite turned around. Freya had backed up against the nearest wall and slumped down it into the mud. Her fingers were threaded through her dirty blonde hair and she looked shell-shocked.

"I swear, by all the gods, I had nothing to do with…" Viconia began.

"I know," replied Freya heavily. "The Hooded Man. It must have been Irenicus. But why? Why pick off my friends? And why Dynaheir? We were barely on speaking terms!"

Rasaad and Viconia exchanged an anxious glance. It was the same thought they shared, selfish though it was. They were Freya's friends too. More so than Dynaheir. If he had thought it worth murdering the witch to get at her, how much more in the firing line were they?

"Perhaps he had some other reason to attack Dynaheir?" suggested Viconia. "But just in case perhaps we should all stay together in the Ducal Palace? We don't know who his next target will be."

There was a horrified silence from the other two, and their eyes widened as her words sunk in.

"ARROW!" Rasaad yelled, and before they could say another word to him his feet were pounding down the street in the direction of the Elfsong Inn.

"SKIE!" screamed Freya, simultaneously. She started to run, skidded to a halt and looked back, remembering that Viconia must be too tired to sprint any further. "Hop on my back Chosen One!" she cried urgently. "Hurry! My wife…"

Viconia jumped onto Freya's back, catching handfuls of golden fur and holding on for dear life. The werewolf started to bound to the palace even before she was fully transformed. It was a bumpy ride but the thick yellow fur was so comfortable and soft. Under different circumstances the cleric could bury her face into it and fall asleep. It gleamed in the pale light of the moon, and she almost caught herself thinking that reflected moonlight really _could_ be beautiful just like Rasaad always said.

At the gates to the Ducal Palace, Freya resumed her usual form. Neither drow nor werewolf alarmed the guards. The Flaming Fist had grown used to their commander and her companions.

"Evening mi'ladies!" The doorman trilled good-naturedly. Freya strode past ignoring him.

"SKIE!" she bellowed into the foyer. A few servants looked around but nobody else was up. There was no other reply. Freya bounded up the stairs two at a time. On the guest landing, Imoen poked her head out of one of the bedroom doors looking worried. "SKIE!" screamed Freya more urgently.

She wrenched open the oaken doors to the Silvershields' private suite. The Duke's door flew open and he emerged white-faced. A butler who had been attempting to polish Skie's wedding designs off the ruined porcelain paused in his task to stare at them.

"What? What has happened! WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?" the Duke howled. Freya ignored him too and wrenched open the door to Skie's bedroom.

"SKIE!"

"What?" Skie snapped, sitting bolt upright in her bath and sending a wave of bubbles onto the floor.

"Skie?" Freya whined, as though not sure she could believe her eyes and ears.

"Is this important? Do you have any idea how long it has been since I had a proper bath?" Skie demanded. "I've had a miserable evening while you've been out having fun. First I found out my lady's maid died of dysentery while I was away and the new one keeps pulling my hair."

She gestured at a rather striking young maid with a pretty round face, and dark purple hair tied up in a bun. Freya almost gave her the eye before remembering that she was married, her wife was sat right there, and that hitting on her would be a rather slimy thing to do given that she was technically the maid's boss.

"Nice to meet you," she said with a stiff bow.

"Pleasure is all mine mi'lady," the maid replied, fluttering her lashes. "Let me know if I can do anything for you. Anything at all." Freya sighed internally. This was going to be difficult.

"Never mind her! And father, go back to bed!" Skie pouted, dismissing the maid and Duke with an imperious wave of her hand. Viconia hovered awkwardly in the doorway but Skie beckoned them both in and gestured to shut the door. "And then she cut it all uneven and took off way more than I wanted her to. Then if you can believe it, she grazed my finger filing it! You'd think she'd never been a lady's maid before!"

"Surface slaves," nodded Viconia sympathetically. "You just can't get the staff."

"Did you have better luck?" Skie asked, lowering her voice.

"Dorn survived," said Freya heavily, "And Dynaheir is dead." Skie turned near purple with rage. For a moment she resembled her father in a way her wife found deeply unattractive.

"What?" Skie cried in a sotto scream. "What in the hells are you trying to do, you idiot? We need to consolidate our grip on power. Do you think you achieve that by murdering civilians, _human civilians_ , for literally no reason? You're as bad as Daddy!"

"Dynaheir's blood is not on our hands my dear," said Freya placatingly. "I believe it was our old friend, Irenicus."

"That is… unfortunate." Skie's face twisted and, like Viconia and Rasaad, she began to worry for her own safety. "Best not take any more jaunts out like this one Freya. You stay here with me. Both of you. It will be… good… to have a cleric on hand, Viconia."

"I would prefer that too, abbil," Viconia replied quietly. "Irenicus and Dorn. I fear them both."

"Surely Dorn won't try anything again?" asked Skie lightly. "In my experience those lucky enough to survive a fight with the Bitch of Baldur's Gate rarely come back for seconds."

"I'd bet anything he will," said Freya grimly. Her guesses were getting better with the aid of Hephernaan's circlet. "His master is damned determined to see the Servant of all Faiths dead. Ah, don't worry Viconia. I'm just as determined to keep you alive. Remember, he only has some petty demon. You have Bhaal."

She clapped Viconia on the shoulder and the drow allowed herself a half-smile, somewhat comforted.

Across the city Rasaad too was comforted and very surprised to learn of Arrow's encounter with the Hooded Man. Their conversation was somewhat stilted as each was feeling guilty. Coran had slipped into the ranger's room as she was getting ready for bed. Though they had not done anything, nor even talked of doing anything, it felt like a betrayal because it was secret. Yet it had to be a secret, because he had passed on her message and Mrs Gardnersonson was eager to meet with her. It seemed Glint had mentioned her from time to time in his letters.

Rasaad had always feared for her safety whenever she veered toward becoming involved with Glint's people. If he knew about it, he would be sure to try and talk her out of the meeting. He wouldn't stop her, of course, but he would fret and worry. Better that he didn't know.

"How did you find the Iron Throne building?" Arrow asked, sitting up in bed as he removed his clothes. Rasaad hoped that if any of the Chapel smell lingered about him it could be put down to the other refugee building. After hearing about it from Bernard, Khalid and Jaheira had broken the fate of the Chapel and its occupants to Arrow. She had taken it with resigned sadness. Nobody in there was close to her personally but the priest, and she had learnt of his passing some time ago.

"Oh fine, fine," lied Rasaad vaguely. He slipped into bed beside her, pulling the covers over himself. "Anything interesting happen while I was gone?"

"No," said Arrow, looking up at the rafters and feeling conscience-stricken. "Nothing at all."


	52. Return to Baldur's Gate

"Arrow! Hey"

Arrow groaned inwardly. Imoen was bouncing down the cobbled street and she seemed so happy to see her. The last time they'd met was a week ago, and that was to tell her that Dynaheir was dead, though Minsc would not accept it and was still tending her soulless body. They had not seen each other apart from that and Arrow did not mourn the absence. It wasn't that she didn't like Imoen, though the whole business with Khalid had made things awkward. It was just that they had never really been close and Arrow didn't have time for this. She had other things on her mind.

Meeting Glint's mother had been an eye opener. Arrow had expected tears, despair and perhaps even anger that she had failed to save her son from hanging. Coran had covered her in a heavy grey cloak and led her through the backdoor of the Elfsong and into a private room. The landlady paid him no heed and Arrow suspected that he brought women upstairs with him like this frequently. It was obvious from the human sized clothes and large quantity of expensive perfumes and furs that this was where he and Safana were residing. Safana sat on the edge of the bed eyeing her calculatingly. Arrow wondered why she was involving herself with rebels, what could possibly be in it for her?

Mrs Gardnersonson was waiting for them there. The old gnome was thinner than she remembered, and there were bald patches on her head. Whether she had lost hair to the brutality of the Fist, had pulled it out from grief or it had simply dropped out from stress, Arrow couldn't tell. What was immediately obvious was that grief had not knocked the fight out of her.

She told Arrow the truth about Baldur's Gate. About how the Flaming Fist treated prisoners, and that a few of the guards went far further than simply beating people up. The ranger paled and her eyes flickered automatically to Coran, who had been briefly imprisoned for stealing for the refugees. She knew they'd beaten him, but this fresh horror had never even occurred to her.

"I'm Freya's friend. If I weren't, that's what they would have done to me," he confirmed darkly. "Or at least, one of my guards heavily implied it."

Arrow felt sick, but Mrs Gardnersonson hadn't finished. The nobility had huge food stores, enough that the famine in the city need never have happened. Yet they had held it back for themselves because they did not know how long the war would last. On Silvershield's orders they had nailed up the Chapel of Ilmater, leaving the victims of Hephernaan's dysentery to die in the dark. Servants who refused their masters anything risked being turned out into the street to starve. Rows of slums were being cleared to make way for fancier housing, and their occupants provided with nowhere to go. Children ran barefoot through the streets without food, education or a future worth having while the wealthy looked away.

The list of abuses of the poor by the wealthy seemed endless. It was with these thoughts weighing on her mind that she ran into Imoen. Bright and cheerful without a serious thought to weigh her down. The last thing that Arrow was in the mood to deal with.

"Hi Imoen," she greeted her, reluctantly.

"Are you going in?" asked Imoen, gesturing eagerly to the Three Old Kegs. Arrow was going in. That was where she was staying. She'd intended to return to her room and sit and think while she waited for Rasaad to return from the Iron Throne (he had actually gone this time). Or perhaps ask her parents some questions if they were around. Like why the Harpers weren't trying to fix any of this. "Great!" beamed Imoen. "Let's get a drink and catch up!"

Imoen it seemed, wanted to know everything. She asked all about Arrow and Rasaad, and on winkling it out of the ranger that they were now sharing a bedroom, started pressing for details that she did not wish to give. At one point she even, uncomfortably, asked how the monk compared to Coran. Arrow flinched a little at this question. In terms of skill the truth was; poorly. She did not share this with Imoen. Besides, she loved Rasaad which counted for far more, and she was sure that his technique would improve given time.

The monk was certainly willing to put in the effort. Arrow, who was quite physical herself, could not help wondering how someone with a sex-drive as high as Rasaad's had gone without all this time. Only once since leaving Dragonspear had he gone a night without laying with her. That day's march had been particularly hot and arduous and she'd mentioned that she was tired. Then he had not tried it on, but she was sure he had lain awake half the night, while his body refused to let him sleep.

Whenever they settled into their tent on the road back, he would stroke her side questioningly. One time, when he got up in the morning, she had wrapped her legs about him and pulled him back down again. This had delighted him and she had repeated it a couple of times since, but she got the impression that he would happily go morning and night every single day without a break. He was certainly happier now, and Arrow was pleased to be the cause of it.

"So, you don't miss Coran at all?" Imoen giggled. Her ale had left a foamy white moustache on her upper lip, but she didn't appear to have noticed. Arrow remembered her doing the same with milk as a child. Imoen had a peculiarly immature quality to her. Perhaps it was because her body already had a few years behind it when Gorion created her. Her patchwork soul was younger than her physical age. Or it might be because she had been created from fragments of children's souls in the first place. If it were the latter, perhaps she was doomed to never truly grow up.

Her question about the elf made Arrow's stomach clench with discomfort, although she wasn't entirely sure why. No, she did not miss Coran. Their fling had been fun and now they were friends. She felt no jealousy toward Safana and was certain beyond any doubt that she was not simply in denial. And yet…

"What about your love life?" she asked, in an attempt to change the subject. The instant the words were out of her mouth she kicked herself. The last thing she had meant to do was invite Imoen to talk about Khalid!

"I've nothing to report, Sir!" Imoen replied, saluting jokingly in imitation of the Flaming Fist. Then she looked rather downcast. "I never do, do I? You've got Rasaad. Safana has Coran. Hells, Freya is _married!_ "

"Not happily, I don't think," remarked Arrow. Imoen shrugged and nodded. That was transparently true. Freya had barely been wed a fortnight but the Hero had undergone a drastic change in appearance and demeaner in a short space of time. There were bags under her eyes and the barking laugh of hers was noticeably absent. Her expression had grown wooden and grim.

"Still," sighed Imoen, "Everyone has someone. Except me. You're all meeting people and moving on with your lives and I'm just Imoen. Nobody ever looks at me like that. No man has ever asked me out."

"To be fair I think Coran was eyeing you up at one point," Arrow shrugged. "You were vehemently uninterested if I recall."

"Coran eyes everyone up!" laughed Imoen. She paused and looked guilty. "Er… no offence."

"No, it's true," replied Arrow, unfazed. "But as long as you're not in the market for anything serious, I'm sure he'd be up for it. He's like a utility elf."

She immediately regretted that choice of words, in the context of what his captors had wanted to do to him. Then, to her horror Imoen burst into tears.

"What's wrong with me?" she wailed. "Am I ugly?"

Anxiety bubbled up in Arrow's throat. She was one of nature's introverts and not built for the sisterhood. Companionable silence interspersed with light banter was about her comfort level for friendships. She was no good at this sort of thing. Heads were turning in the bar at Imoen's crying. People were staring.

"No! You're very pretty," Arrow patted her on the back. "Much prettier than me."

It sounded disingenuous, not because it wasn't true, but because the ranger placed limited value on being 'pretty'. She had once had major insecurities about being _ugly_ but Coran had left her confident that she was fine. For Arrow, being average was plenty good enough. Yet she felt that being told she was adequate was not what Imoen wanted to hear. It occurred to Arrow that she had been silent for too long. She was overthinking as usual. Perhaps Imoen would get better comfort from the Bhaalspawn who _never_ overthought.

"Maybe Freya is a better person to talk to than me? At least about this sort of thing."

"Freya's always busy," Imoen sniffed, blowing her nose into her sleeve. "I think she forgets I even exist half the time."

" _A great deal more than half the time,"_ Arrow thought privately.

But Imoen tried anyway. She found Freya in the Silvershields' private suite in the Ducal Palace. These days, she was technically a Silvershield herself, having been instructed to adopt her wife's name. She had taken to occupying a chair at the end of the oaken dining table, beneath the portrait of Maire and her harp. Marrying into the Silvershield family was proving rather less of a happy ending for Freya than it had for Maire. She sat stone faced, surrounded by piles of dull-looking papers, working by the light of a dying candle. Yet she listened to Imoen's worries carefully, with sad, exhausted eyes.

"I used to think I'd never find happiness either," she replied in a deadened tone. "But look at me now. Lady Silvershield."

It was singularly unconvincing, and Imoen spluttered. Freya gave her a bitter half-smile but it was soon replaced by an expression of granite resolve. The werewolf had not entirely lost her sense of humour but it was sliding into black comedy. At length she sighed and put down her pen.

"Look, Imoen, don't tell anyone but if it makes you feel any better; Coran was a virgin until he was the elf equivalent of mid-twenties. Rasaad is several years older than you but I know for a fact that Arrow was his first. So, you're twenty and you haven't met anyone yet? That isn't freakish or unusual and it doesn't mean there's something wrong with you. You have your whole life ahead of you." Freya sighed. "Believe me, it could be a lot worse."

Right on cue, the door to Skie's room… their room now, she supposed… burst open. The gust from the door sent documents flying from Freya's pile and she had to slam her hands down on the table to catch them.

"Ugh, you're still working on that?" Skie complained. "You're so boring now, gods! You're becoming just like Daddy!"

Imoen almost fancied that she could see the spark fade out of Freya's eyes as another little piece of her died inside.

The next day Freya called a meeting. Not everyone would be willing or able to stay under the umbrella of her protection, but the least she could do was offer them a heads up about Irenicus. Viconia got the unenviable job of rounding up the survivors. Nothing she could say would persuade Minsc to leave Dynaheir's dying body, though it was clear that the witch herself had long since departed.

"Boo says evil elf lady magic must be able to help where surface healers cannot?" he pleaded, between sobs.

"I cannot revive Dynaheir," replied Viconia stiffly. She ought to be mean to him, but his desperation to cling on reminded her uncomfortably of her first few days after they made her brother a drider. She had tried desperately to conjure up a way to rescue and restore him, before accepting that it was irreversible and clawing her way to the surface like a drowning worm. "I would if I could, though the gods alone know why, for your witch was no friend to me. But I cannot."

Then there were the Treehuggers. Viconia found them lurking around a small round table in the Three Old Kegs. They did not look pleased to see her. All three placed their ales down on the table with a clunk and stood as she approached. Jaheira's hand tightened about her staff and even her useless, stammering husband clenched his fist.

"You're alive," Arrow noted in a voice colder than a dead fish. "I take it, then, that Dorn Il-Khan is not?"

"He escaped," replied Viconia curtly. She wasn't sure whether the ranger would take this as good news or bad. Neither, in truth, did Arrow.

Dorn's training had been helpful, but his patron's vision for the future was horrifying and his interest in herself disturbing. Yet at the same time, Dorn's death would not prevent Ur-Gothoz's plan. That had been made clear enough. The demon would just send another Blackguard to take his place. His survival caused her no great consternation nor relief.

"Escaped?" Khalid asked sceptically. "From w- where we were s- s- standing it looked like he was the one ch- chasing you."

"Standing is all you did, I noticed," the drow spat back acidly. "Freya wants to see you about Dynaheir's death. All of you. She thinks Irenicus did it and he might be coming after other people she knows."

Arrow was about to reply that Irenicus had already had his chance to hurt herself, her parents or Rasaad had he wished to. He had met them alone outside the city, but instead he'd dismissed them and kept walking. Before she could tell Viconia as much, however, Jaheira had already accepted her invitation. Arrow looked to Khalid in confusion and her father gave her a wink.

Did the Harpers want to treat this as an intelligence gathering exercise? So be it. She'd be leaving soon, she could tolerate Viconia and her human-Labrador a little longer.

Collecting Rasaad brought them back to the Iron Throne building. It was in a far better state now that some of the refugees had gone home. Others had been relocated to tents at Freya's suggestion so that only families were left. It meant that there was no need for anyone to sleep on the ground floor anymore.

They found the monk giving the sheltering children an impromptu martial arts lesson. Two dozen scrawny little people ranging in age from six to about fourteen were stood neatly in rows. They copied him step, punch, block. Kick, turn. Some of them seemed to have more natural aptitude than others, whose punches were wildly off to one side. Yet all of them were watching Rasaad, spellbound.

"Elbows back. I should not be able to see your elbow," the monk instructed them. "If I can see your elbow that means your punches swing around… _like this…_ and that is no good. Knee up to kick. Up above your belt if you can. Knee up first, then kick."

Arrow smiled at him fondly. One of his fellow pastors noticed the group come in and recognised them from before. He stole up between Arrow and Viconia, beaming.

"The Calishite man has really lightened up since last time," he chuckled. "It's an odd thing to say, but I think war has done him some good!"

"Yes," agreed Viconia, with a faint smile, watching him instruct the tiny humans. Rasaad would make a good father one day. She shook the thought. A good father of _Arowan's_ children. Offspring that the asocial ranger probably didn't even want. Arrow noticed the fondness in her scarlet eyes as she surveyed the monk and frowned.

"Rasaad is doing something nice for the poor," Arrow pointed out. "I thought Sharrans had rules against that?"

"This is not like your Ilmatari coddling. The moon monk is making them strong!" Viconia countered. Arrow thought she detected a hint of pride in the drow's observation, and bristled. "If only he were raising them for Shar. What valuable additions to the Dark Moon cult they would grow up to be."

Rasaad's priest pal paled at this remark and withdrew from the conversation hastily. It was as well that he did. Arrow turned to Viconia with an expression that suggested standing between the two of them would be an unwise move.

"Ilmatari coddling?" she hissed. "Is that a reference to the Chapel of Ilmater because if it was…"

"Would you like me to give you another scar to make your cheeks match?" Viconia taunted her, brushing the backs of her slender fingers over the marks she'd left in their last scrap. Arrow grabbed her wrist. Jaheira yelled a warning to them both to stop it, but Viconia yanked her arm in forcing Arrow to step toward her. Then she bent into the ranger's ear. "Tell me, have you visited your precious Chapel since you've been back? I have. If it is of any comfort, I can tell you they died how they lived, wallowing in their own excrement!"

She broke off choking. Arrow's hand was on her throat. It was only for a split second; a loss of control that she never would have had before going to war. Or with anyone else… but there was something about Viconia that filled her with overpowering hate.

"A- Arrow the children!" Khalid protested. Arrow came to her senses and let Viconia go. She had not intended to do that. It had been an instinctive reaction. The cleric turned her eyes to Rasaad beseechingly, but he was so intent upon his class that he hadn't even noticed them come in.

In fact, he insisted on finishing the lesson before he would come to Freya's meeting. It was held not in the palace but in a back room of the Elfsong. Corwin greeted them at the door in full Fist uniform. Whether she had been instructed to stand to attention as a guard or had simply chosen not to sit down was unclear.

The captain had been spending her share of the dragon horde. Arrow noticed enchanted boots, an archer's talisman and a bow so menacing that it looked like it was built to shoot through concrete. Everything had been upgraded. Except oddly, her uniform, which Corwin had not even bothered to wash.

Skie sat at the head of a long pinewood table, with Freya on her right. Candles flickered along the length of it, casting deep shadows across their faces. Viconia smugly took her place on the young noblewoman's other side. Arrow had to fight not to roll her eyes openly. She caught Jaheira's eye and the two shared a grim expression for it was clear how things were.

Both Skie and Viconia had long been working the idiot Hero from different angles. Skie had taken advantage of her doggish loyalty and snared her into marriage. Viconia had convinced her that as oppressed minorities it was them against a hostile world. At the same time, it seemed, she had demonstrated to Skie that she was no threat. Between them these two cunning schemers now ruled Freya, and Freya in turn ruled the city.

"Interesting choice of venue," remarked Jaheira, casting a haughty eye around the room. The timbers were cracked and dry, the paintings shrivelling in their frames. Even the stuffed game heads had been done by an amateur taxidermist. It was hardly a high-class establishment for a meeting organized by the ruling elite.

"Er… necessary," coughed Freya. She may look the part with her lion's mane of hair and crown-like circlet, but her new role made her transparently uncomfortable. Imoen was sat on the Bhaalspawn's other side. She looked pale and scared. "My father-in-law is in a delicate temper at present and… erm… bringing these two into his apartments would be… well… he's an old man who's no harm to anyone anymore. No sense in being needlessly provocative."

She gestured to Coran and Safana. The elf was standing with his arms folded over the back of Safana's chair. He was looking at Freya with an accusing expression. His fellow thief had her dagger out and was twirling it by its point on the table. Arrow wondered whether they had fallen out again.

"That and I don't want you stealing everything that's not nailed down," added Skie, being needlessly provocative.

Yes, Arrow decided, it was not her imagination. She, Rasaad and the Harpers took their seats quietly around the table and a waitress came in bearing an armful of tankards and a full pitcher. Freya was avoiding eye contact with her best friend, though he was staring her down with burning eyes. Something was definitely up between her and Coran.

By way of distraction the golden werewolf leaned across the table and asked Viconia where Minsc was. She didn't seem entirely surprised to learn that he would not leave Dynaheir and vowed to pay him a visit later. Skie wrinkled her nose at this.

As the barmaid placed a tankard in front of each of them, Freya held up a palm and shook her head. Rasaad beamed approvingly. He had long been trying to persuade her to lay off the alcohol.

"No thanks, I... erm... I'm trying to cut back on the drinking," said Freya.

"You astonish me. I'd say facing a lifetime of marriage to Skie would be a good reason to drink _more_ ," remarked Safana. Apparently the needless provocation was going to flow both ways.

Skie carefully put down her glass (she, Viconia and Safana were the only ones at the table drinking wine) and walked out, dignified. With a smirk her cleric followed her. "Warn them about Irenicus if you like, but be quick about it. We have more important things to do."

Not another word was said until they were out of the door. Then Freya turned to Safana. In the absence of her handlers, some of her former confidence seemed to return to her.

"Grow up!" Freya snarled.

" _You're_ telling _me_ to grow up?" laughed Safana. "Have you forgotten how you ended up in this mess in the first place?"

"No I haven't actually," Freya growled, "Which is why I'm not drinking. Besides I have more to worry about than my wife right now. Did you know that Silvershield doesn't have the gold to pay the soldiers for this war? I mean he literally hasn't got it. Never did! I'm having to top it up out of pocket. Only they don't keep proper records of who has and hasn't been paid already so-"

"We're soldiers not pen pushers," retorted Corwin, from her position by the door.

"Then hire a fucking pen pusher!" Freya hollered at her, springing to her feet and slamming both hands on the table. Corwin glared, as her commander sat down, eyeing the officer resentfully. "Then we need to start looking for a long-term wage solution. Even I don't have the resources to personally fund the Fist indefinitely... and it isn't just paying the troops... turns out the Fist needs reforming badly."

"Meaning what?" Corwin snapped.

"There's no retirement plan, no provision for soldiers incapacitated in battle or war orphans." Freya replied flatly.

"How do you plan to pay for all this?" Jaheira chipped in. "A tax rise now will make you seriously unpopular."

"It'd make the Dukes unpopular," corrected Freya, "But I can persuade the people to buy into it. It needs to be a two-way deal though. We'll have to stamp out police corruption at the same time. It'll be hard at first, we'll have to lose some people."

"I thought we were here to discuss Irenicus," cut in Arrow. She suspected that, circlet or no circlet, Freya's suggestions for reform had been drafted by her wife. It wasn't a bad idea, particularly the part about police corruption, but Coran's revelation about the Fist's treatment of prisoners had shaken her. She couldn't trust herself to stay calm in the face of their new commander.

At the mention of Irenicus's name, Imoen flinched. Freya nodded slowly, eyeing Khalid's tankard enviously. Then she sighed and fixed her grey eyes on her sister. They had dark circles under them. Arrow was surprised to find herself actually feeling sorry for her. She, after all, was free to do whatever and go wherever she liked. Whereas Freya had given herself a life sentence. The little gold band on her finger might as well be a shackle.

"Yes," Freya sighed wearily. "You all know by now, I assume, that he attacked Dynaheir and removed her soul. Viconia has told me that it was likely done using a device called the Soultaker dagger that Edwin had on his possession at the time of his death. Which really with hindsight we ought to have taken off him sooner…" She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"And your fear is that he will come for us next?" asked Coran, with surprising stiffness. "Nice to know you're still bothered."

"This isn't a game Coran!" Freya growled. "He could pick you off one by one. Your best chance is to stay in the Ducal Palace where I can keep you safe!"

The thieves turned to each other and burst out laughing. Freya ground her back teeth in irritation, but Arrow remembered being told that Coran had taken steps to evade the wizard as soon as he'd learned of his existence. She had no idea what these steps might be, or why Freya had not taken the same measures from the outset, but he seemed extremely confident that he would not be caught. He shook his head and he and Safana left.

"What about you lot?"

Again, Arrow was about to tell her that Irenicus had no interest in her. Nor indeed any of them. Had he wished to hurt Khalid, Jaheira or Rasaad he could easily have done so. They had practically walked into him. Again, Jaheira cut her off before she could get the words out and accepted on their behalf. The ranger made a mental note to have a word with her parents. As far as she could recall, she had never volunteered to spy for the Harpers.

"Won't this be great?" smiled Imoen. "I mean not about Irenicus, obviously. But you me and Freya, all together again?"

Arrow sighed. Buried deep in her pack along with Gamaz's numbing potions was a picture Imoen had drawn as a child. She had found it during their brief return to Candlekeep and had not had the heart to throw it away. It showed her holding hands with Gorion, and all the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn, like the big happy tribe they weren't. Thorg, Draxle, Afoxe and the others. Arrow hadn't known about them until they were already dead. All that was left now were her and Freya. Two grown women with little in common, and yet Imoen still longed for the three of them to be a family.


	53. Queens

Corwin took a deep breath. She had put this moment off for weeks, to be certain that she was doing the right thing. With her share of wealth from the dragon's horde, she did not need this job anymore. She had more treasure sat in Baldur's Bank than she could earn as a captain in the next hundred years. Part of her loved the Flaming Fist and adored her job. Getting to where she was had not been an easy road. Yet she had made up her mind and it was time.

Placing her helmet carefully under one arm, she rapped on the great oaken door to the Silvershield suite. Its appearance had altered somewhat under Freya's tenure. The werewolf had no objection to luxury in principle, but she had no eye for décor either. What was more, she was using this space as an office and when the servants came in to clean, she would bark at them to leave.

The windows had not been opened in some time and the air was oppressively thick. Fresh flowers which had once been replaced on a daily basis were brown and rotting in their vases. Muddy footprints covered the Evereskan wool rugs, the Duke's fancy napkins were in a screwed up inky pile and a layer of dust was starting to settle.

Freya was sat at the end of the long dining table looking drawn and tired under a large pile of paperwork. Apart from the paintings of Silvershield ancestors, her clothes stood out as the only resplendent thing left in the room. Skie had been very insistent on that. Whenever they went outside, their very presence had to be a show of power and stability. Two hours of Freya's morning were lost daily to hairdressers, boot polishing and the devoted attention of her valet. She enjoyed it about as much as a dog at the groomer.

"Put them with the others Bence," she groaned, without looking up. "These letters on the right are ready to go to the families. Have copies made of the new widow's pension scheme to take with them. Oh, and bring me another inkpot, this one is almost out."

As she spoke, she continued to write without looking up. It struck Corwin as ironic that this was the best dressed Freya had ever been, and yet she had never seen her looking so shabby. The Hero's uniform was bedecked with glittering medals now. Not that Corwin could really deny that she had done things that would legitimately qualify her for awards… yet these were just propaganda tokens to show the might of the Silvershield family.

"Captain Corwin reporting, _Sir_ ," she said with a sarcastic salute. Freya put down her pen with a click and glared at her.

"Make it quick Captain," she said testily. "I'm busy."

Corwin crossed the room in six brief strides, stopping across the table from Freya. She placed her badge, helmet and ceremonial sword down in front of her.

"No," said the werewolf flatly.

"I'm here to tender my resignation," Corwin began stiffly.

"Denied. Return to your post soldier," said Freya wearily. She lifted another sheet from the pile, sighed, pulled a blank parchment from her cabinet and began writing again. It had once been where the Duke kept his fancy ports and bespoke ales. Either Freya had drank its entire content or she'd had it removed so she wouldn't be tempted to. The pen made a scritching sound in the silence.

"Sir, with respect you can't-" Corwin began again.

"Arodrin Parks. Did you know him?" asked Freya, cutting her off.

"Only by sight, Sir," she replied defensively. "The Flaming Fist is a large organization and-"

"It wasn't an accusation," Freya sighed. "He died in the Siege, leaving behind a wife and three kiddies, soon to be four. I believe he looked after his aging father as well."

"I am sorry to hear that," Corwin replied, truthfully.

"Do you want them to starve?" Freya asked bluntly.

"Sir!" protested Corwin.

Freya stood up abruptly, knocking her chair back with a loud clatter. She slammed both palms onto the desk, though she was careful not to dislodge her paperwork.

"I do not have time to fix this garbage pile of a payments system and see to the day to day running of the Fist as well! I need you!" she jabbed her finger onto the paper stack. The top scroll contained a long list of names, some of which had little crosses by them. "More's the point _, they_ need you!"

"Get someone else!"

"I don't trust anyone else!"

Corwin had never wanted to hit the werewolf more than at that moment, but it would be considered treason now.

"I'm resigning!" she insisted.

"You signed up for twenty years' service!" Freya replied, fighting to keep her voice level. "You cannot resign from the Flaming Fist without the permission of your senior officer and I'm not giving it to you!"

"I want to talk to Duke Silvershield!" Corwin cried.

"He won't either. I thought you might try to pull this crap, so I spoke to him first," said Freya. "If you leave it's desertion. That carries the death penalty and don't for one second think I wouldn't sign the warrant."

Captain Corwin's heart began to pound. She was coming to loathe Freya Silvershield far more deeply than she had Freya Candlekeep. Vapid and unshakably arrogant though she had been when they had first met (not to mention unbelievably thoughtless and selfish) she'd at least possessed a certain good-humoured charm. And she had not yet broken her heart. Corwin could scarce bring herself to admit that she'd been growing feelings for the woman. Beno had been Prince Charming by comparison.

"You are not fit to lead the Flaming Fist," declared Schael Corwin, boldly.

"Neither are you, _Captain_ ," growled Freya. Corwin swelled with rage. "These men died following you, but you'd rather see their widows and orphans go unpaid than swallow your damn pride and get on with your job. Your behaviour is disgraceful."

Corwin's face contorted. The worst part was that the Bhaalspawn was absolutely right. This did not make her hate her any less. Skie! She'd thrown away what they had and married fucking Skie! At least she was suffering for it. Though not, in Corwin's opinion, nearly so much as she deserved to.

"Permission to return to duty?" she said finally, between gritted teeth.

"Granted," said Freya, returning to her mountain of paperwork. "And send in Bence on your way out, I still need that inkpot."

Corwin resumed her work, unaware of how full her hands were about to get. The refugees were filing home, with some assistance from the Flaming Fist to clear their burnt-out hovels and rebuild. A temporary wooden replacement for the bridge Caelar destroyed had been erected and trade from the North was resuming. The food that had been ordered at the start of the crisis had long since reached the city, and the dysentery was cured. Most importantly of all perhaps, the Flaming Fist had been paid.

On the surface it seemed as though things were back to normal in the Gate, but in many quarters tensions still simmered. Skie, at least, was very aware of this. The new leaders were being watched and judged. It was not just the Harpers who were assessing these early days of her rule. The young aristocrat was on a probationary period, and she was walking a tightrope. Enemies of Baldur's Gate were watching for signs of weakness they could exploit. Yet within the walls, civil unrest could explode again at the first hint of tyranny.

"Does she know?" Arrow asked Coran and Safana as they slipped out of another meeting with the Blue Beards. She had resumed her gnomish disguise to get to these meetings. This was because it was impossible to know if they were being spied on or who to trust. Nobody cared about Alix Whosonson, perched on a stool with her walking stick. If it got out that Arowan-the-Hero's-Sister was attending these meetings, however, it would be the talk of Baldur's Gate.

"Of course she doesn't! Are you mad?" hissed Safana. Her face was hidden by a heavy grey cloak, that looked cheap on the outside but was lined with ermine within. An odd poster girl for a peasants' revolt. "Her little viper of a wife would have your head mounted on a spike above the city gate. Don't be under any delusions about that!"

"I tried to get Freya on our side," muttered Coran, who had not taken the trouble to disguise himself at all. "But I never got as far as telling her we're Blue Beards. Luck was my Lady that day as it turned out. What I did get a chance to say did enough damage."

They paused by a hatch leading to the Elfsong cellars, waiting for the streets to clear. When nobody was watching, Coran kicked it open with his foot and the two thieves jumped in. They were followed, rather less elegantly, by Alix the gnome. Coran reached up behind him and lifted her down.

"Thank you," she croaked in an old crone's voice. "What a nice, helpful young lady you are."

Coran grinned. Alix's confusion as to the elf's gender was a lie he had once told Rasaad to cover up another lie, and it had become a standing joke. The hatch closed and they were plunged into pitch blackness. Here she would wait among the barrels until her potion-disguise wore off. Then she would change back into her usual clothes and emerge as Arrow the human.

Safana struck a light and the three of them ducked behind a stack of kegs. Coran kept an eye on the door, ready to extinguish the flame in an instant should they have company. The landlady knew they were there, but there were beer delivery men, exploring rogues and amorous couples to look out for down here.

"What did you say, if not that?" croaked Arrow.

"I only stated the obvious," shrugged Coran, pushing his auburn hair from his eyes. "That Freya is about as fit for the nobility as I am and her marriage is a farce. She can't go on like this indefinitely, she'll drive herself mad."

"And what did Freya say to that?" asked Arrow. In response, Coran clenched his teeth and smacked a keg in frustration.

"She told Skie," Safana replied for him.

Arrow let out a low whistle. Skie's determination to become city leader had led her to manipulate everyone close to her. Now she had her prize, the ranger could imagine how she would want to deal with a pair of thieves trying to steal Freya from her.

"You're lucky to be alive," Arrow said fervently. "Why in Ilmater's name are you still in the city?"

"I'm not leaving my money!" cried Safana, as though Arrow had suggested she abandon her first-born child. "Besides, luck had nothing to do with it. Freya won't let her punish us. Skie hasn't got her _that_ pussy-whipped."

"Not yet," muttered Arrow, who had a low opinion of the Hero's morals and judgement.

"Freya won't let me hang," said Coran, with absolute certainty. "She'll threaten it. She'll bark at me till she's hoarse… but when it comes down to it, I'm her best mate and she won't let it happen."

"You're certain of that are you?" asked Arrow, doubtfully.

"She'd stop it even if she had to bite through my rope with her own teeth," Coran replied.

"Whereas you, sweetheart," Safana drawled, petting Arrow on the head, "Will have about as much chance as a mouse in a snake-pit if they ever get wind of your involvement in all this."

"Safana is right," agreed Coran, the torchlight glinting in his green eyes. "Take Rasaad and get out before things get even more dangerous. With the greatest of respect Arrow, you can't make enough of a contribution to our cause to justify the risk to yourself."

"Mrs Gardnersonson thinks I can," said Arrow. "She said having the Hero's sister in the protest will undermine their authority."

"It very well might! That's why Skie will kill you!" exclaimed Safana.

Coran plucked a stray thread on his sleeve looking thoughtful.

"Mrs Gardnersonson is ready… some might say _eager_ … to martyr herself for the cause," Coran said quietly. "I'm not. If I didn't know that Freya would stand between me and the noose, I wouldn't be doing this. What about you? Are you willing to go to the gallows for this?"

The ranger had to consider his question. She'd be lying if she said the prospect didn't frighten her, but it was not the first time she had risked death to help the poor of Baldur's Gate. Every day that she had spent tending the dysentery victims in the Chapel of Ilmater, she had been acutely aware that she might be infected next. Death by hanging was terrifying, but not as much as death by dysentery. Besides, not a day had passed since she'd left Candlekeep that being killed hadn't been a real possibility. She was used to it.

"Tell me," she said, while she chewed it over. "Why are you a Blue Beard, Safana? Coran doesn't entirely surprise me, he was stealing for the refugees before, but you?"

Coran looked at Safana, suddenly concerned, and Arrow realised belatedly that this might have been a more personal question than she had intended. The thief cast an appraising eye over her younger co-conspirator, deciding whether and how much to tell her. Finally she replied, picking her words delicately, though her hatred toward the Flaming Fist was audible.

"Like Coran, I was once imprisoned for theft," Safana said, "Unlike Coran, it was before I'd met Freya." Arrow did not ask any more. But she did make up her mind.

In a peculiar twist of fate, the former head of the Fist was now a prisoner himself of sorts. Duke Silvershield had been relocated to the family's walled estates on the edge of the city. He had not yet attempted to venture beyond his own gilded gates. The aging noble had a creeping suspicion that he would not be allowed to, and he meant to spare himself the humiliation of having this confirmed.

Every day he took a few laps around his garden amongst the falling pink blossom. It was strange to have so much time on his hands. Before, he had worked into the small hours, much as his unfortunate daughter-in-law was doing now. These days he found himself wishing that the servants would not clean his rooms for him and prepare his food. Then, at least, he would have something to do besides crunch the first autumn leaves underfoot and admire his chrysanthemums.

As he rounded a corner of the house, he saw a hooded groundskeeper bent over the beehives. This was nothing out of the ordinary, his men always wore thick gloves and masks when they collected honey from the stinging little guards. It was only as he drew closer that it struck him that the hives were silent. Absolutely silent, without the hint of a buzz. In fact, he had not seen a single bee all afternoon.

He turned and started to hasten away, but had not gone two steps when he found his whole body frozen. His legs turned of their own accord and carried him, lurching to the beehives. Something was crunching beneath his boots now that was definitely not leaves. He looked down and saw hundreds of furry black and yellow corpses.

"Fascinating little creatures aren't they?" asked the Hooded Man in a voice that sent chills through the Duke. "So incredibly devoted to their queens. It is a trait I imagine many of your people would admire, though personally I have little time for queens."

He reached into the nearest hive and plucked out the last survivor; a huge bulbous queen bee. She squirmed hopelessly between his fingertips. The Duke refused to answer. Presumably he was being played with before his death. Well, he was damned if this insolent conjurer would get a show out of him!

"What you have to remember about queens," went on Irenicus pitilessly, "Is that they are only as powerful as the hive that protects them. A queen without her army is nothing at all."

He pulled out a dagger. There was something about the blade that filled the Duke with foreboding. His eyes were drawn to the gem in the hilt, which seemed to emit a sort of inner light. Inside shapes were swirling. Every so often he caught a glimpse of a hand or a face pressed against its surface. He struggled against the spell holding him but it was useless. Carefully, ever so carefully, Irenicus pricked the belly of the bee. She struggled harder than ever, for he had not slain her, but gradually her movement slowed. Her spindly black legs stopped wriggling and her wings folded and lay still.

"Poison!" the Duke managed to grunt.

"Nothing so crude," Irenicus retorted. He held the dagger to the Duke's horrified face. Now when he peered into the hilt's gem, he saw the shape of the lost queen. She seemed to be flying into the inside of it over and over, like a housefly against a window. "The queen's soul is trapped inside this dagger. Alas, this is the fate that awaits your daughter."

The Duke howled, in fear and fury. His own death he had been ready to face bravely. The prospect of losing his last surviving child was more than he could stand. Despite her betrayal he loved Skie. More than he loved the city. More than he loved himself. The volume of his cry was sure to bring guards running but with a hum of magical power, Irenicus teleported them both from the spot.

They reappeared in the Duke's bedroom. It was a surprisingly spartan affair, consisting of a single bed with clean, cotton sheets and a small rickety wardrobe. As his finances had dwindled, he'd had to start selling his possessions and the things that visitors would not see had been the first to go. He could manage without a rug in his own room, provided the Thayan ambassador had bearskin in his.

"I would listen carefully if I were you," Irenicus told him coldly. "You cannot save Skie from her destiny, but you will decide what happens next. Preserve her body and I will return the dagger and her soul to you in due course. Provided certain conditions are met."

"What conditions?" grunted the Duke, though he guessed the answer before he heard it.

"You will arrest Freya for her murder," said Irenicus. "Deliver her to me outside the city along with Imoen."

"Not Arowan?"

"I have no interest in Arowan," replied Irenicus. She was not powerful enough for himself but rather more than he wanted to give to Bodhi. "There is no need to actively prevent her from joining Freya's party, but the ranger is an irrelevance."

"You'll never get near Skie!" the Duke declared defiantly. "She has the protection of Freya _and_ the Flaming Fist."

"Her new lady in waiting is an assassin in my employ," Irenicus sneered. "Perhaps you have seen her with your daughter already? She is quite distinctive. The young woman with the purple hair?"

Silvershield's pointed face sagged in defeat. He had seen her and heard about her extensively. Hadn't Skie kept moaning about what a useless maid she was? Because she never really was a maid! He should have known. Irenicus' lip curled in triumph. Now to find out which Silvershield valued more; his honour or his daughter.

"The situation is not so dire as you imagine," Irenicus went on, pulling out a ring and holding it to the light. "When all this is over Skie will be revived and Freya will be dead. The Hero has no heirs, so all her wealth will pass into the Silvershield estate. And Skie, the fledgling queen, will have learnt her place!"

With a wave of his hand he released the Duke from his hold person spell. The aging man stumbled back onto the bed, looking up to see a geas ring being waved beneath his sharp nose.

"So, what say you, Your Grace?" Irenicus pressed mercilessly. "Bearing in mind that I will be taking Skie's soul either way."

Very slowly, as his ancestors turned in their graves, the Duke raised his finger for the ring.


	54. Betrayal

One full moon and then another came and went without attack from Irenicus. Despite having his assassin so close to the girl, she was finding getting an opportunity to stab her easier said than done. Whenever Skie called for her, Freya was never more than a few paces away. Clara tried suggesting that they go for a walk together, but Skie refused. She could not get past Freya's tasters to slip a sleeping draught into the werewolf's drink. When she tried to creep up from the servants' quarters while Freya slept, she found the way heavily guarded. All the while, Irenicus was growing terrifyingly impatient.

Skie's rule, with some gentle nudging from the more politically experienced Viconia, was off to a strong start. She seemed contented with the situation. A political marriage was what she had been brought up to expect. Freya, conversely, was sliding ever deeper into self-loathing. Relative inactivity and a continuous supply of food from the Ducal kitchens wrought a rapid change in her physique. In that it expanded it. The extra size rather suited her in her new role, adding a certain air of authority and gravitas to her already high charisma.

Red and golden leaves swept past her window in a blaze of autumnal glory. This time last year she had been tearing up the Sword Coast with her two thieves. Before Imoen had joined them and their party had grown, they'd been able to ride on her back in wolf-form. What a life. Ripping into bandit camps while Coran and Safana picked the place clean of treasure, then pelting half-way across the country before Sarevok even heard about it.

She smiled at the memory. They'd even tried to rob this palace once. She had much preferred burgling it to living in it. As she sat beneath Maire's portrait, the door opposite her slammed open. Skie's door. Freya had grown to dread the opening of that door.

"What is that noise out there?" demanded Skie.

"Nothing important dearest, just a bunch of gnomes waving placards," Freya sighed. Skie's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Are _all_ of them gnomes?"

Freya wiped the excess ink from the nib of her pen on the edge of the inkwell. The pads of her fingers were stained perpetually black these days. Her wife was glaring at her. Perhaps now that the Duke had been removed to the family home, she could move her office into his room. Technically it was Viconia's, but most of the time it was where she slept. It'd make a more cramped office than the dining table, but it had the advantage of a lock to keep her wife out.

Sharing a bedroom with Viconia was not as glamorous as it sounded. She'd been fucked by the cleric before, and Skie probably assumed she still was. Yet Freya had neither the energy nor the drive. Even being insulted no longer got a rise out of her. Nothing did, and after a while the Sharran had given up. Mostly Freya just curled up at the foot of Viconia's bed in wolf-form and stared longingly out of the window.

"If you're talking about Coran and Safana, I believe they are out there, yes." Freya replied testily.

"You need to do something about them," Skie sniffed.

"What exactly did you have in mind?" asked Freya. A soft growl crept into her voice.

"You tell me!" Skie exploded suddenly. "It's hardly a secret that they're your friends! They helped you defeat Sarevok and Coran blew the head off that dragon. Everyone knows who they are, and especially who _he_ is! The fact that he openly defies you is undermining us, why can't you see that?"

"He's entitled to his opinion!" Freya's voice started to rise.

In the next room Viconia peeled her eyes from the window and bit her lip. This was not the first time the Lady Silvershields had this argument. It threatened her newfound peace and security with them. She watched the street below from behind a curtain. A drow in the Ducal Palace was only likely to anger the crowd more, but she could get a look at them without being seen herself.

The numbers were not huge. A couple of hundred peasants and a smattering of the merchant classes and lower gentry. It struck Viconia that her own nebulous status probably put her somewhere in this category. It was hard to read the banners from this distance. The symbol of Ilmater cropped up here and there. To the drow cleric this was a most peculiar situation. Nothing like this protest ever occurred in the Underdark. If you did not like your leaders (which nobody did) you simply sacrificed them to the Spider Queen (invariably at the first opportunity). It was a system not without its flaws, but it was at least tidier than this.

Glint's blue-haired mother was leading the group. Even before her son's death, when she had interrupted the march from Baldur's Gate, she'd given the impression of being one of nature's firebrands. Viconia's red eyes scanned the gathering until she picked out Safana and her irritating elfin mate. She'd always got on reasonably well with Safana, finding the mercurial woman somewhat easier to relate to than most surfacers. Coran, she was biased against for his friendship with Arowan, though she feared Freya's reaction if anything were to happen to him.

Come to think of it, where was Arowan? Despite their long-standing animosity, Viconia knew the ranger well. She did not believe for an instant that the pauper-loving brat would sit this one out. She squinted her ruby eyes and began to scan the crowd more intently.

But she was distracted by a loud crash and a tinkle of broken glass. She turned from the window and wrenched the door open to see blood red wine dripping down the wall behind Freya's head.

" _I_ RUINED _YOUR_ LIFE?" screeched Skie. " _I_ RUINED _YOURS?"_

"I apologise, my love, that was uncalled for," replied Freya, between gritted teeth.

"Well you didn't just ruin _my_ life, you ruined the whole city!" Skie shrieked defiantly. "Caelar would never have been able to open the portal without Bhaalspawn blood. She started her crusade because of you lot and all the problems that came with you. Daddy and I were just fine until you came along!"

"Just fine?" Freya spluttered. "Sarevok would have murdered your father if I hadn't stopped him!"

There was no denying the accuracy of this statement, so Skie tried a change of tack.

"And you drove Eldoth away!" she cried. "I loved him, and you frightened him off!"

Freya had no response to this. She sat down heavily in her chair, the arms of which were slightly too narrow to comfortably accommodate her added girth. Her right hand reached mechanically for her pen, and she rested her forehead in her left. Skie seemed to sense that she had gone too far.

"Freya…" she began placatingly.

"Go paint your nails or something," her wife muttered, not looking at her. "My 'love.'"

She placed such a transparently sarcastic stress on the last two words that Skie stormed downstairs, yelling something about dealing with the protesters herself if Freya wouldn't. As soon as the oaken doors slammed shut, Freya threw down her pen and stomped past Viconia to survey the street below.

"Bloody woman… If she turns the guard out on them, I swear by Selune's shining arse I'm going to…"

"You look ready to throw yourself out that window," Viconia observed delicately. Freya gave her a look so sour that the drow began to fear she really might. She would not have believed it possible, but the werewolf was actually starting to remind her of Xan. Her fingers flexed at the memory. One day she would hunt down that miserable little darthiir and…

"What the fuck have I done Viconia?" Freya asked despairingly.

" _Made the marriage alliance of the century and seized power! What I would not do to switch places with you!"_ Viconia thought regretfully, but the werewolf was no drow. Coran, who knew Freya better than anyone, had been right from the outset. This was never going to work.

"What will you do now?" asked Viconia. They watched Skie thundering into the street to confront Mrs Gardnersonson. This wasn't going to end well, but Freya could hardly summon up the will to care.

"We'll make our marriage work. We don't have a choice," Freya replied in a hollow voice. "Skie was as drunk as I was, and we made a mistake. If I leave her, she'll have nothing. A noblewoman neither married nor divorced with no fortune? They'd shut her in an attic somewhere."

"Scuse me Ma'am?" a voice interrupted at the doorway. It was Skie's lady's maid, her purple hair wound up in a bun under her neat lace cap. She fluttered her lashes alluringly, but Freya was past noticing.

"What is it Clara?" she asked.

"Begging your pardon but I couldn't help overhearing," she purred. "Your wife weren't drunk ma'am. Not a bit of it. She topped up your tankard all night and pinched that brain-boosting circlet, so you'd tie the knot with her. But she weren't drunk herself."

"How do you know that? You weren't there!" barked Freya.

"She were boasting about it while I were cutting her hair ma'am," said Clara. "Seemed mighty pleased with herself. Chatters constantly while she's having her hair done, so she does. Couldn't keep her head still for a minute, made the scissors chop all wonky."

"Begone, gossiping whore!" Viconia spat. "Ignore her Freya, that one is obviously trying to become your mistress. Servants like that are dangerous. Better to purchase a pleasure slave."

But the damage was done. Freya's skin, already sallow from being cooped up indoors for so long, turned deathly grey.

There was a scream from outside. Freya rushed to the window and smacked both palms on the sill with a curse that sent pigeons scattering. Then she turned and pelted down the stairs. While she was distracted with Clara, Skie had indeed turned the guards out.

The red-clad officers had their swords drawn, and the unarmed Blue Beards were fleeing. It didn't seem as though the Fist planned on chasing them. Their steel boots crushed the abandoned placards into the mucky street as they rushed forward to seize Coran and Safana. The sight of Skie in person, who'd had a major role in Glint's death, was too much for Mrs Garndersonson. She collapsed and was caught by a second elderly gnome, whom the guard promptly arrested.

"ENOUGH!" Freya bellowed.

She strode out of the gates of the palace with Viconia close behind.

"What do we do with them Sir?" called a middle-aged veteran, who was hauling Mrs Garndersonson to her tiny feet with unnecessary roughness.

"Why don't you tell her what you lot normally do with prisoners?" spat Safana. The guard dropped the frail gnome into the mud and belted Safana across the face.

"You don't like it? Don't disobey the law!" he hollered.

Corwin, who was holding Coran's arms behind his back, looked up at Freya for instructions. She had never much liked Coran or Safana. At the same time, it wasn't clear whether they had technically committed any crime.

"Bring them back to headquarters, and we'll sort this mess out," Freya growled.

"No!" yelled Coran. Freya's steely grey eyes turned on him. "Don't make Saffy go back in there. Please."

Freya's stony expression softened fractionally and she jerked her head in the direction of the Ducal Palace instead. The cellar where they had once imprisoned Eric was not much of a step forward, but at least it claimed less horrific memories.

"You knew?" spat the other gnome. "You knew and you joined the Fist anyway?"

"Alix!" Coran called warningly.

Freya knelt down in front of the white-haired old woman. She was still considerably taller. Yet despite being a fraction of her weight, the gnome glared back defiantly. Freya's grey eyes flashed and for a moment Arrow was sure her sister had recognized her. But she was wrong.

"I don't know who the hells you are," she growled in a low rumble, "But the guards who were involved in that incident had been dead for a long time before I enlisted. Very dead, if you catch my meaning. Which is exactly what you will be if you don't shut up!"

"Those guards had friends," said Coran, recalling his own stay in that prison.

Abandoning her gnome, Freya launched her great weight to her feet and turned back to Coran. She was easily three times his size now, but the elf did not blink.

"The guards who threatened you no longer work for the Fist, as you are perfectly well aware," she snarled. "It was the first thing I did when we got back."

"I'm sure their recent victims will take great comfort from knowing that you dealt with them appropriately," drawled Safana. "Quietly discharged on your new pension scheme. Flaming Fist justice at its finest."

Freya almost howled in frustration. Skie, Coran, the Blue Beards, Corwin, Safana, Irenicus, not to mention her fucking father-in-law. She wanted nothing more in the world than to transform into a golden wolf, bound away into the wilderness and leave the whole bloody lot of them to fight it out amongst themselves. Everyone seemed to think they could do better at this job she had never volunteered for. What she would not give to let them!

Rather than continuing to air their fight in the street, they returned to the Ducal Palace. Skie took the stairs down to the basement. At the same time Freya started upstairs toward the guest wing. The two wives glared at each other in a battle of wills that the werewolf lost. Viconia, however, carried on up the stairs without them. Arrow was relieved. She did not like the shrewd way that the cleric was looking at her.

All four of them were tossed unceremoniously into Eric's former cell, while their captors went upstairs to discuss what to do with them. Arrow looked glumly about her. Somebody had tried to scrub the streaks of dried blood from the walls, but some had soaked into the mortar and stained. The manacles that had bound him still hung from the wall. Freya had not bothered to use them since there were not enough to go around and the four of them had nowhere to go.

"You'd better have a top-up," Coran whispered. Arrow nodded and took another gulp of the potion that kept her looking gnomish. If they were released before it wore off, there was a chance that Skie need never know of her involvement.

At length Corwin returned alone, her expression unreadable.

"Coran, Safana. Upstairs. Commander Silvershield wants to speak with you," she said. "Alix you are free to go. Be so kind as to escort Mrs Gardnersonson home."

Arrow's gaze flew anxiously to Coran, but he smiled encouragingly at the withered old gnome. If anything he appeared quite at ease now Arrow had been set free, and not the least concerned that he and Safana had not. He seemed certain that Freya would never harm the pair of them. The ranger wished she shared his confidence. Moving Mrs Gardnersonson was a slow and difficult business. Coran and Safana were standing across from Freya's pile of paperwork before she had even reached the stairwell.

The commander did not invite them to sit down. There was a long silence. Coran's hands were clasped behind his back and his green eyes drilled into Freya accusingly. She'd insisted on doing this without Skie present, though no doubt the young aristocrat had her ear pressed against the door. The werewolf looked wistfully at the Duke's drinks cabinet, but it was packed with spare paper these days. What she wouldn't give for a beer.

"Why do you keep doing this?" she groaned. "I have enough problems, without you and your bloody gnome!"

"Because I'm your friend Freya," said Coran. "And friends tell each other when they're about to ride off a cliff." A knot tightened in Freya's throat.

"I'm doing my best," she said hoarsely.

"Your doing your best for the wrong side," Coran replied.

There was another long pause. Freya took hold of a scroll. The ink had only recently dried. She poked it with her finger, it didn't smudge, so she rolled it up and placed it carefully in front of her. Clara's words were weighing on her. She wasn't Coran. She could not just marry Skie and abandon her lover to face the consequences alone. On the other hand, if Skie had done this to her on purpose…

"Perhaps?" Freya began, lifting the document and staring at her candle stub with intent. Her hand was halfway to setting the scroll on fire, when Safana chose exactly the wrong moment to open her mouth.

"For once in your life think for yourself, you dumb mutt!" she exclaimed. "Do you really want to spend the rest of your days as a glorified secretary while your tart of a wife fucks half the men in the city?"

In a loss of temper that would be physically impossible for most humans, Freya seized hold of the end of the twelve-seater dining table and flipped it lengthways. A blizzard of paper work engulfed the three of them, the tiny candle spluttered and went out. With a crash that must have shaken the floor below it, the table smacked the wall. It crushed a portrait of the current Duke, leaving him dripping with ink, and bounced back. It landed between Freya and the thieves with an even louder bang.

Freya was shaking with fury. Her blonde hair had fallen loose about her shoulders in feral waves and her lip was curling to reveal canine teeth. Coran had seen her madder than this in the past, but not by much.

"How dare you mock me for being cuckolded when you two have cheated on each other so many times I lost track?" Freya roared. Her voice, which was always the early warning sign when her grip on the wolf was faltering, began to crack. "And on that note, don't be calling my wife a tart. It goes beyond mere hypocrisy. It suggests that you can't count."

"Oh, gods forbid anyone say a word against Skie in your presence," said Safana, her voice dripping with disdain. "You are ..."

"I am the head of the Flaming Fist, that's what I am!" bellowed Freya, drawing her twin bastard swords and plunging both of them into the table. From the look on her face she would rather have stuck one each into the pair. "I am the police chief. And you are a thief. Think about that on the long journey South and don't dare so much as look back!"

Fur was sprouting from her cheeks and Coran began gently manoeuvring Safana backward. He knew that Freya would never hang them. _Eating_ them, however, was a potentially different matter.

"I'm not going South!" Safana exclaimed. Then her eyes narrowed as the penny dropped. "Oh... I see," she sneered. "It's like that is it?"

"You're exiling us?" gasped Coran. "After everything we've been through together?"

"Count yourselves lucky that you're being allowed to leave at all," said Freya. "You wouldn't be if my wife had her way. She wanted to lock you up and throw away the key!"

"On what grounds?" Coran protested.

"Are you serious? Larceny? Fraud? Mutiny? Pick one!" Freya bellowed.

"Nice to see your efforts to stamp out corruption in the Flaming Fist are going so well," Safana replied, her voice trembling with fury. "What if we refuse?"

"That's your choice Safana," she sighed exhausted. "But somewhere amongst these papers is your arrest warrant. I'm filing it in three days' time whether you're still in the city or not."

There was no way that she could beat the Hero in a fight, but Safana looked ready to give it a go anyway. Her protestations that Freya was nothing but a cash-cow had only been half-true, but even so her tolerance had its limits. Coran, however, was done. In his long elfin life, he had never had friends like Freya and Safana. This was breaking his heart more sincerely than any of his romantic relationships had ever managed.

"You're making a mistake," spat Safana. Her eyes were blazing with hatred. "We were the only real friends you had."

"Get out," replied Freya. "Just get out."

Safana wasted no time. First among her priorities was always money. Travelling on the open road with a share of the dragon's horde was going to be highly problematic. Especially since Coran's role in slaying the thing had turned him into a local legend so everyone knew he had it. She had arrangements to make, and quickly.

The elf, who loved the process of acquiring riches but lost interest as soon as he had them, paused at the door. Freya made a half-hearted effort to gather her papers off the floor, then slumped down into a chair with her head in her hands.

"Freya?" he began gently.

The werewolf let out a low whine and shook her head. As he crossed the room to her, she slid from the chair, as though melting into a puddle of golden fur. She curled around and buried her face into her thick, fluffy tail, trying to block out the world.

Coran dropped down beside her and ran his hand down the back of her canine head and shoulders. It was the softest fur in Faerun, and like everything else about her, enhanced by charisma. Gorion had given her those tomes by way of compensation. His aim had been to make her so lacking in flaws and weaknesses that nobody would care if she was a gay, lycanthropic Bhaalspawn.

"I wish he hadn't given you those damn charisma books," Coran sighed. "You never needed them then and you don't need that demon's intelligence circlet now. All it's doing is making you miserable. Do yourself a favour; take it off and throw it away. I don't like the politician they've turned you into, Commander Silvershield. The real Freya is as thick as her own backside. And I want her back."

Wolves can't cry, but the curled-up ball of fur began shaking violently. He ruffled the fluff with both hands. It was like petting a vast, vibrating beanbag chair. He felt a bit ridiculous, but slowly the huge golden dog uncurled. She raised her thick muzzle and licked his cheek. Coran threw his arms about her, and buried his face into her fur, never wanting to let her go.

"It's alright puppy, I'm here," he told her. "You're my best mate and I love you. And I'll still love you when you're ready to stop being an arse. Find us in Amn and I'll talk Saffy round. She loves you too. Er… really deep down."

The door to Skie's bedroom opened, and under her accusing glare, Coran left with a bow. He was followed down the stairs by a howl. A long, miserable, guttural sound that went on and on.

"Well that's that," said Skie, satisfied with a job well done.

"Not quite," came a reply from the doorway. Viconia was dragging Alix Whosonson by the collar. "I paid a call to the visitors' wing to check on our other guests. The ones we're protecting from Irenicus. The half-elves were there, little Imoen, and Minsc with what's left of his witch. Imagine my confusion when Arowan was not."

"Are we fallen so far that we have to resort to bullying grandmothers now?" Freya yelled, turning back into a human. She wrenched Hephernaan's golden circlet from her head and pulled it apart. It crackled with released magical energy, and she dropped the two halves to the ground, no more than glittering gold. "Release the blasted gnome!"

"The hells did you do that for?" snapped Skie, gesturing in frustration at the ruined artefact. "I'd have had it if you didn't want it!"

"You don't need it. You're plenty cunning enough already!" Freya growled, thinking of what Clara had told her. "Why is that bloody gnome still here? Am I talking to myself?"

"I will release the gnome," smirked Viconia, "Just as soon as I see you hit her."

"What?" yelped Freya. "I'm not hitting nanny-gnome, she's a hundred years old!"

"If this is a gnome then I am a cream-filled pastry," sneered Viconia. "As I understand it, the bond you two share through Imoen stops you from hurting each other directly. Try to hit her. If you can't, we'll know it's Arowan."

"And if I can, then I just thumped a fucking octogenarian!" protested Freya. "Absolutely not, I'm not doing it."

"Eighty or a hundred? Make up your mind young lady!" croaked Arrow. Her heart was pounding but her only chance now was to keep playing the part of Alix, and hope that a way out presented itself. "But either way I'm sincerely flattered."

Freya scowled at Corwin. "How long do gnomes normally live?"

"About thirty seconds once they cross the path of my people," Viconia smirked. Freya still refused to move. "Very well."

She cast Dispel Magic. She could, of course, have just done that in the first place, but it would have been less entertaining. Exposing Arrow was a moment she wanted to savour. She chanted and gradually the enchantment lifted. The deep lines on the gnome's face smoothed. Tufts of cotton-wool hair receded into her ears and freckles sprouted like mushrooms on an autumn lawn.

Viconia beamed triumphantly at her cornered rival in her too-small gnome clothes. Skie's eyes narrowed and Corwin raised an eyebrow. Freya's reaction to this turn of events was to emit a chain of expletives so vehement that Skie sat on the end of the table to prevent her wife from flipping it again.

"Escort my sister to the Flaming Fist headquarters," said Freya, once she had calmed down. "But nobody is to lay a finger on her while I decide what to do with her. If I see so much as a black eye the guard who gave it to her will spend the rest of his life eating meals through a straw. Now sod off all of you, I need to think!"

It was late when Corwin returned, battling her way through a damp evening gale. There was not a star to be seen, for the sky was carpeted with angry clouds. The first roll of thunder followed her into the Ducal Palace as she handed her cape to a waiting servant.

Freya was sat on the bottom stair waiting for her. She would not be missed for a while. Clara was trying to repair Skie's botched haircut, so her wife would have someone else to berate for an hour or two. She got to her feet as Corwin approached, running her fingers distractedly over her chin.

"Can I help you, Sir?" Corwin asked frostily.

"Schael, is it true?" Freya blurted suddenly. "You were standing guard all night, you were sober. I'm talking about our wedding. Did Skie seem drunk to you or was she planning this the whole time?"

"Are you really that stupid?" gawped Corwin. "I'm sorry, of course you are. Yes. Obviously, she was planning it the whole time! I didn't see her that night, but I saw her the next morning, and she didn't have a hair out of place. She wasn't hungover!" The Captain paused and scowled. "Not that I can talk. She tricked me too."

"What are you saying?" asked Freya weakly.

"She told me that you thought I'd be an easy lay, because of what Beno said about me," Corwin relayed stiffly, in the tone of a policewoman reciting evidence on an awkward topic. "And that you weren't planning on sticking around."

"I never said that!" Freya replied, her voice faint and confused. "I never even _thought_ that, why would she say that to you?"

"To get rid of the competition you idiot!" snapped Corwin. "She'd been planning it days in advance, probably a lot longer! You should have seen her face when her father gave the order to fire on you. He almost ruined everything."

Freya sat down on the stair, shell-shocked. Then out of nowhere she threw back her head and let out a great bark of laughter. Corwin, who had been about to pat her on the shoulder, jerked her hand back in surprise. Could it be that the mad dog had finally lost her marbles completely?

"Sir, any thoughts on what we should do with Arowan?" Corwin asked, frowning.

"Whatever you like!" Freya sprang to her feet, still grinning. Then her mood seemed to sober once more. "I'm sorry, Captain, I want you to know that. For everything."


	55. Skie's Last Dance

With Freya finally out of the way, Clara cut more than Skie's hair. A delicate little prick on the back of the neck, blamed on her scissors. Skie's scolding of her servant became slower and slower until her still-breathing body slumped in her chair. Clara dressed her gently in her nightgown like a life-sized doll and tucked her into bed. She swept up the hair dutifully, left a glass of water on the young aristocrat's nightstand, drew heavy velvet curtains to block out the moonlight and smothered the candles one by one.

Then she tiptoed upstairs to the servants' quarters. Her bunkmate was still up beating rugs and dusting bookshelves. Poor mug would be at it for hours, then up at the crack of dawn, all for less than a silver piece a week. It was why Clara had shunned honest work as a career. Better to murder nobles than to work for them. Carefully she opened the window. It was an attic window leading directly onto the roof. The guards on the balconies below would struggle to spot a thief hiding in shadows, or a hooded man lurking behind the chimney stacks.

"You had better have good news for me, Clara," he said in a voice icier than the gale that howled around them. It whipped her purple hair from its neat bun and into a frenzy about her face. She held out the dagger to him and Irenicus grasped it eagerly.

"It is done," she said.

Irenicus held the evil blade gingerly between his fingertips and peered into the swirling depths of the stone in the hilt. Yes, there she was. Along with the sad, stoical face of the Rashemen witch, the unluckiest bee in history and centuries of forgotten accumulated victims. A single ballerina, pirouetting on her toes.

He smiled coldly and sheathed the blade.

"Now when do I get paid?" demanded Clara. "Twice the Shadow Thieves' rate, that's what I was promised by that creepy sister of yours."

"When we return to Amn. But first I have another task for you," Irenicus said. "I have charmed the soldier Bence Duncan. He will arrest you and place you in a cell near the Bhaalspawn. You will say nothing, keep out of sight and listen."

"For how long?" objected Clara. Being imprisoned in the Flaming Fist headquarters was not a job she would ever sign up for but she dared not refuse Irenicus. Even so she wanted certain reassurances. That jail had a reputation.

"A few days, no more," Irenicus replied. "Rest assured you will be better fed than the regular prisoners and the cell will be clean. But you _will_ stay unseen and unheard. If anyone asks you were arrested for stealing from the palace kitchens. Are we clear?"

Clara had no option but to agree.

Meanwhile, Skie's soulless body lay breathing deeply. When morning came and the maids came to sweep the fireplace and open the curtains they thought she was simply having a lie in. Nobody disturbed her. Freya certainly didn't try. She was cramming her belongings into a pack. Her cleric sat cross legged on the bed watching her.

"What are you doing?" sighed Viconia.

"Leaving, obviously!" whispered Freya. "You coming, Chosen One?"

The Sharran sighed resignedly. Freya running out on her marriage came as no great surprise, though life in the Ducal Palace had been a comfortable break. She slung her long legs over the side of the bed, dressed hastily and grabbed her own gear. Hers was always packed. As a drow on the surface, it was as well to be ready to leave in a hurry.

"Can't we postpone a few days?" she wheedled, widening her scarlet eyes. "Only I was so looking forward to watching Arowan hang."

Freya gave her a scathing look and Viconia shrugged disarmingly.

Arrow had barely slept. She was not sure whether Freya would agree to execute her or not, but she knew that Viconia would press for it hard. If Skie was baying for her blood too then she stood no chance. The Hero had no great sisterly affection for her and was easily led. She laced her fingers around the bars to her cell and peered out. Did her parents know about this yet? What about Rasaad?

The door opened and her heart leapt but it was only Bence. He was dragging a whimpering young woman by her long purple hair. Without looking at or acknowledging Arrow, he hurled her into the neighbouring cell and slammed the door with a clang. A fair number of deep purple strands remained coiled about his fingers.

"What is it with Flaming Fist officers wanting to scalp people?" Arrow remarked caustically. "It's like a bloody fetish."

Her fellow prisoner made no reply. Arrow didn't care. She was still craning to get a glimpse of the main corridor, waiting for Rasaad to come.

Rasaad, as it happened, was the one to find Skie. He knew nothing of Arrow's involvement with the Blue Beards. The night of her arrest, he had stumbled home exhausted from the Iron Fist building and fallen asleep waiting for her. It was only when morning came and he rolled over drowsily to reach for her that he realised she was not there. He banged on every door in the guest wing looking for her, then hastened upstairs to the Silvershields' suite. After some arguing with the guards that he had to speak to Freya, they let him in. To his horror he found one unoccupied room, and one unoccupied body.

Freya had no notion of this. She and Viconia were halfway to the Eastern Gate, hoods raised, when they ran into Captain Corwin. She was waiting for them, arms folded. They were easy to pick out of a crowd if you were looking for them, and the experienced officer was. Freya's thumping size and Viconia who was well below average in a city of humans, both with their faces completely covered. The Captain glared at them, and Freya knew trying to slip by her would be futile.

"Morning Schael," sighed Freya.

"So, you're running away then?" snapped Corwin.

"Yup!" replied Freya. She attempted a disarming doggy smile which Corwin answered with an eyeroll.

"How did you know?" asked Viconia.

"I may not be a 'superior species' like you, drow, but could you credit me with some common sense?" Corwin retorted. "Commander Silvershield is about as subtle as a concrete brick. Bouncing around like a puppy about to be let off the lead and telling me how sorry you are for everything? I'm not an idiot!"

"Look, I stayed because Skie would be ruined if I didn't," Freya began reasonably. "Who else would marry her after this? Nobles can't divorce! Her children would be illegitimate! I thought she got into this mess on a drunken mistake just like I did. Now I know that she planned it all along and I owe her nothing! And it's Freya again, not Commander Silvershield. I officially resign."

She tossed her badge to Corwin. The irony was not lost on the Captain who had recently tried to do the same thing and been blocked by Freya. Yet that decision was up to the most senior officer. There wasn't anyone senior to the commander. She could do whatever she liked.

"You really are a childish, irresponsible-" Corwin began.

"There she is! After her!"

A patrol of Flaming Fist officers rounded the end of the street. They were pointing at Freya and shouting, all with swords drawn. Freya had no desire to fight the soldiers who had fought Caelar with her and briefly served under her command.

"Dammit!" sighed Freya. "Gotta go Corwin. Good luck."

She transformed into the beautiful flaxen wolf and Viconia sprang onto her back. In a blur of gold she took off through the city, earning admiring coos from the blissfully unaware commoners. Corwin stood there and watched her go. Her hand clenched around the badge. Perhaps it was for the best. Between them Freya and Skie had stabilised the city. Things would probably be ok without the Hero now.

The patrol sprinted after Freya as fast as their armour would allow them, but their two legs could not keep pace with the werewolf's four. They clattered to a halt, panting, beside Captain Corwin and their leader raised the visor of his helmet to reveal a red and sweaty face.

"What are you doing?" the guard gasped to Corwin, "Why aren't you chasing her?"

"Why bother?" shrugged the Captain. The guard blinked at her in disbelief.

"Sir, haven't you heard?" he cried. Corwin blinked at him, bemused. He looked askance at his fellow soldiers and then said, "Skie's body was found in her room! She's been murdered!"

"What?" cried Corwin.

"Skie Silvershield is dead, Sir!" the guard repeated, "And Commander Freya Silvershield is wanted for murder!"

"She won't get far!" cut in another guard. "Duke Silvershield ordered all the gates to be closed this morning. They weren't sure whether to take his orders, but Bence confirmed it. Lucky, eh?"

"Lucky," Corwin echoed slowly. Then she snapped out of her shock. "Alright lads! With me!"

She led the patrol onward and sure enough they caught up to Freya near the barricaded gate where she and Viconia were trying to scale the walls. Hoping to avoid a fight with her, which she was not entirely confident that they could win, Corwin seized the cleric instead. Viconia's waist was at a level with her arms, and she ripped her from the mossy wall and pressed a sword to her throat.

"Stop or we'll kill the drow!" Corwin bellowed.

"Don't be a fool Corwin!" Freya hollered back. She was about seven feet up, but the bows of a dozen archers were already trained on her and more officers were arriving by the second. "She's the Chosen of all Faiths."

"Surrender now or we'll do it!" Corwin called back. "You're not leaving me any choice Freya. If you're innocent come back and face trial."

Freya paused, puzzled and looked back. The archers would not be able to pierce her armour if they had a hundred shots each. What weaknesses there were in the joins were covered by magical amulets and as the most powerful lycanthrope in Faerun she could absorb a lot of arrows anyway. Still, she remembered Sarevok's warning about the Servant of all Faiths. Though she was not inclined to listen to anything her brother said, her instincts also told her that letting the Chosen One die was a bad idea.

"Innocent of what?" Freya barked. "I know running away from your wife is frowned on, but the last I checked it wasn't a crime!"

"You will return with me and answer for the murder of Skie Silvershield!" Corwin replied.

For a split-second Freya half-grinned thinking that this was a joke and she was missing the point. Then a deep frown line appeared on her forehead as the Captain's words sunk in. She let go of the wall, dropping down and landing on her feet. Immediately two officers rushed up to seize her. Freya shrugged them off with ease and crossed the street to Corwin in two strides.

"What are you saying Schael?" she asked in a low voice.

"You will come with me to headquarters and answer for your crimes!" Corwin repeated, her voice rising shrilly.

"My wife is dead?" Freya asked, her voice cracking. Then it rose into a hysterical bellow. "WHAT HAPPENED TO SKIE?"

Corwin did not answer, refusing to acknowledge that Freya did not already know. Yet the commander was deeply popular with her officers. She had not only led them to war and back with less than a cartful of casualties but she had also brought them pensions and paid them from her own pocket when the Duke could not. One of them answered instead.

"They killed your wife Sir, same way they killed that Rashemen woman!"

"Soultaker dagger they reckon," chimed in another. "Must have been Irenicus, just like you warned everyone!"

"Skie?" Freya whined softly, unable to believe her ears. The world seemed to become a blurry haze around her, and she allowed the guards to lead her away. Two were supporting her under her left arm, another was patting her back comfortingly. It was more like an escort than an arrest. "This is my fault. I should never have left her."

"Don't worry Sir, we know you didn't do it!"

"If the Duke tries to hang you, we'll hang him!"

"Yeah! Hang him by his bollocks, the bastard."

"Make way for the Hero of Baldur's Gate!"

"She's dead," Freya whispered, and a cold dread settled over her heart.

Now she knew how Caelar must have felt about her uncle Aun. Though Skie had barely been a wife to Freya, Bhaal's divine debt to the Silvershields still stood. If Irenicus had her soul, then nothing else mattered but claiming it back.


	56. The Prisoner's Prisoner

"Well this is poetic justice," Arrow muttered sourly from the next cell.

Viconia did not reply. One minute she had been living in the Ducal Palace, protected by the Hero of Baldur's Gate and every god in the pantheon. She was advisor to the leaders of a powerful city state and about to crush her most hated enemy. Now she was squatting in a dank, mouldering cell listening to the ghostly squeals of rats.

It was deathly cold. Arrow was hunched in a corner, her knees pulled up to her chin and hands buried in her tunic. Half the time her face was burrowed into her arm as well, in an effort to retain what little warmth there was. Surprisingly, they had not taken her armour or equipment, only her bow. Being the commander's sister had its privileges, even if it was the commander who had put her there.

Freya could not give a hamster's backside about Arrow in that moment. All her thoughts were on Skie. Viconia, who she had insisted be placed in the same cell, was eyeing up the metal frame of the door and wondering whether the Hero was strong enough to kick it from its hinges.

As soon as the main door opened, Arrow leaped to her feet, but once more she was disappointed. It was not Rasaad, nor the Harpers, but Duke Silvershield. He looked pale and drawn, though not as angry as Arrow would have expected. Round and round he kept twirling his beard about his finger as though he might pull it out. He was accompanied by Bence Duncan, who was staring straight ahead of him with a peculiarly vacant look.

"Freya Silvershield, you stand accused of the murder of your wife Skie Silvershield. Henceforth you will be taken to the gates of the Flaming Fist where you will stand trial for your crimes."

"Something is wrong," said Viconia, narrowing her red eyes in Bence's direction.

Lacking in wisdom though she was, Freya had clocked this for herself. Bence had been one of Skie's lovers. The mechanical tone in which he addressed her supposed murderer made no sense, whether he believed the accusation or no. There was not a flicker of emotion.

The Duke's behaviour was all wrong too. His daughter had been murdered and yet he seemed more agitated than angry. He certainly came across as distressed, but not so wild with grief as the situation merited. Arrow shuffled in her cell to get a closer look. She was shocked to learn that Skie was dead, but right now her own fate was of more concern. Freya had locked her in here. If her sister were convicted there was a chance that they might let her out, but equally she would lose the Hero's protection. She listened, waiting anxiously for anything that might help her.

Arowan would not get the chance to hear much, however. Bence produced a key to unlock Freya's cell, only to find that her loyal followers had never fastened it in the first place. She narrowed her wolfish eyes at the Duke as she passed him, then strode out of sight. Bence locked the cell properly this time, trapping Viconia within. Arrow rushed to push her bed up against the wall. Though she could not reach the tiny window of the cell she could strain to hear what was going on outside. In the next cell she heard another scrape as her neighbouring prisoners did the same thing.

There was a crowd gathering outside and by the sound of things they were angry. A few solitary cries could be heard against werewolves, drow and not needing another Sarevok. Overwhelmingly, however, the people were on Freya's side.

"Silence! SILENCE YOU SNIVELLING PIGS!"

If he had demonstrated suspiciously little emotion before, the Duke was convincingly distraught at the idea that Freya might be acquitted.

"Did she do it?" asked Arrow.

"Shut up rivvil!" snapped Viconia. "And no, of course she didn't!"

"You're qu- quite c- c- certain of that are you?"

"DAD!" screamed Arrow, tearing herself from the window and earning an impatient shushing from Viconia. "Mum, Dad, you have to help me!"

"Calm yourself child!" chided Jaheira. "Why are you caught up in all of this?"

Khalid grabbed the bars, eyes full of concern, but there was no moving them without an exceptional thief or the key.

"I had nothing to do with whatever happened to Skie. Is it true she's dead?" Arrow jabbered. Khalid nodded mutely and she hung her head for a moment out of respect.

"It is a dark day for Baldur's Gate and the balance of power in the whole region," Jaheira predicted darkly. "We were keeping an eye on her for our associates. She had stabilised everything. Freya hasn't got the brains to do the same even if she were willing to try. This is a disaster."

"But how are y- y- you in here?" stammered Khalid.

"I was at the Blue Beard protest," Arrow replied. "In disguise. They arrested me and-"

"YOU WERE _WHAT?"_ Jaheira thundered.

"Shut up mongrel!" hissed Viconia, who was trying to listen to the trial outside.

"Do you know to whom you speak?" Duke Silvershield was out there berating the judge. "I'll have your family on the street begging for coppers if you don't convict this accursed dog!"

For the moment, further conversation in the jail was impossible. The heckling from the crowd gathered outside had become so loud that it drowned out all other sound. From the angry tone of the people it sounded as though a full-scale riot was in the offing.

"Duke Silvershield, you do not want to do this…" the judge began.

"Don't tell me what I want!" howled the Duke. His instructions from Irenicus had been crystal clear. If Freya were to walk free and return to the protection of the Flaming Fist, he would never get his daughter back. The mad wizard did not strike him as the sort of man to give out points for effort. "I know what I want! She killed my little girl… my Skie…"

His eyes darted frantically over the hostile faces of the people gathered below. Freya stood to attention, pale faced but magnificent. With the weight she had gained these past few months she had lost her roguish charm in favour of a different but equally powerful flavour of charisma. That of the dignified statesman. It was an illusion of course. Anyone who spent an hour in conversation with her would see past it. But most of these people had never spoken to her and never would.

Perhaps there was another chance. Another way. He could not sway the people but it might be possible to persuade Freya to co-operate of her own volition.

"You put on a good act, but I know the truth," he said. "It wasn't enough to slay her body and leave me childless? You had to take her soul too? Tell me what you did with it fiend! Where is the dagger? _Where is the dagger?_ "

"Irenicus has it, obviously. Unless…" Viconia's eyes widened. "Unless… Freya! FREYA!" The drow began screaming frantically in the direction of the window she could not reach, trying to be heard over the crowd. It was impossible from this distance. "Help me! Help me you idiots! FREYA!"

"The priests can do nothing _without the dagger._ She's gone forever, _unless you provide the dagger._ Skie…" Silvershield was half-weeping, but still laying a heavy stress on the words he wanted her to pick up. It wasn't breaking the geas exactly.

"Irenicus murdered Skie, surely your wizards can prove that?" Freya asked the judge.

"A powerful force obscured divinations at the time of the murder," the judge replied. "That in itself is highly suspicious and points to premeditation. However, we have learned one important fact. Skie Silvershield's soul languishes within an artefact called the Soultaker dagger. All attempts to locate the dagger have amounted to naught."

"But we know he had it. He murdered Dynaheir with it," Freya replied steadily.

"According to you!" Duke Silvershield cried. "Nobody can prove that. In fact he had no motive. Whereas, wasn't the Rashemen an enemy of yours?"

There was some muttering among the officers at this. Dynaheir had made no secret of her animosity toward Freya during the march. While Freya had shown little mercy toward her foes.

"Enemy?" cried Freya. "Hardly! We'd had a falling out but-"

"Over your inclusion of a drow in your party I believe?" the Duke went on, reminding the people that she travelled with an evil dark elf to press his advantage. There was more murmuring. He was starting to sway them.

"Freya!" screamed Viconia, at the top of her lungs. "Freya you deaf mutt!"

Arrow exchanged a look with the Harpers. At the same moment the three of them came to a decision and they all joined Viconia in shouting her name at once. Even this would not be enough to get a normal person's attention over the din of the mob, but Freya was a werewolf and her pack were calling.

To the consternation of the gathered people, Freya hopped down from the scaffold and followed Viconia's voice to her window. The angle was wrong and the window too high for her to see down there, but she wriggled her fingers through the bars to let them know she could hear them. Khalid pushed his reddish hair back with his fingertips.

"The Duke did it!" screamed Viconia. "He did it himself!"

"What? Why?" barked Freya.

"If you are executed, Skie is free to remarry and she'll inherit your estate!" cried Viconia. "She dies, you hang for her murder, Soultaker is found among your possessions and Skie can be revived, conveniently widowed. Don't you see? He's trying to keep your money and get rid of you!"

" _Clever girl!"_ thought Clara in her cell. _"You're so close… The drow really are as cunning as they say."_

Freya bounded back to the scaffold and in that instant it took every ounce of self-restraint she had to stop herself from transforming and ripping her father-in-law limb from limb. Instead, she repeated Viconia's accusation. The Duke turned pale. She was right save for two important details; that he had not masterminded this plan, and he had not been given much choice.

"You dare accuse me of attempting judicial murder?" he cried, with as much outrage as he could feign.

"I accuse you of actual murder!" howled Freya. "You killed my wife!"

"My Lady Silvershield, think about what you are saying!" the judge baulked. "Skie was his sole surviving child. His only heir... why would he do such a thing?"

"So that he can have her resurrected after he's got rid of me!" growled the wolf. She turned to the crowd. "Doesn't it seem a little too convenient that Skie is one missing artefact away from revival? After my execution the Soultaker Dagger will make a miraculous reappearance, count on it!"

"You hated Skie!" Duke Silvershield retorted. "You were caught running away. You would have done anything to escape from your marriage!"

"I didn't hate Skie, only being married to her!" Freya retorted. This drew a shocked gasp from the onlookers, but the Hero was not finished yet. "If anyone had reason to hate her it was you. She took over from you and forced you into retirement. A so-called Grand Duke, usurped by his own daughter! The humiliation must have been unbearable. I suppose you think a spell in that cursed dagger will teach her a lesson?"

The Duke was frowning at her thoughtfully. From the mood of the crowd, he was not sure it mattered who they ended up believing. The fact was that Freya had been personally funding the refugees in the Iron Throne building for months. She had won the war for them, prevented the opening of hell, paid the soldiers out of pocket and perhaps more important than any of that her charisma was astronomical. They were not deciding on the guilt or innocence of a prisoner. They were choosing their new ruler, and they were sure to choose Freya.

"I do not have Soultaker," he said. He fixed his eyes on Freya and spoke very slowly, willing her to understand. "I do not have the dagger needed to revive my daughter. I would do or say _anything_ to get it back."

But Freya did not understand. Just when Hephernaan's circlet would truly have come in handy, it was lying in pieces on an expensive rug.

"He's broke!" Freya went on, pointing a thick finger at the Duke. "I was the one paying his creditors and the Flaming Fist. His plan is to have me executed, inherit my wealth and then bring Skie back. Well it won't work, _father._ "

She turned and addressed the crowd directly, projecting her charismatic voice to its fullest extent. It was so loud that it was heard far beyond the crowd, though it would be months before Coran himself found out about what she had said.

"Let it be known so there can be no accusations of fakery," she began, "That I mean to change my will. The Silvershield family will not inherit my estate. I leave my land, bank accounts and all material assets…" she paused. "To Coran of Tethir!"

In the prison, Arrow heard this and groaned. For the first time in her life she understood the phrase 'banging your head against a brick wall' for she genuinely felt the urge to do this. Instead she threw back her head in frustration and her choppy brown hair, unwashed and lank, flopped backward. Her sister really was the most braindead creature. She would lose at checkers to a troll!

"Viconia!" she hissed, "We need to get Freya down here again!" Again they called and again Freya jumped down to answer, unhindered by the guards who were transparently on her side. Arrow called up to her; "You can't just name Coran!"

"Why not?" asked Freya.

"Because you might as well be signing his death sentence!" Arrow replied urgently. "How difficult would it be to murder Coran on the road if you were out of the way? Name others! What about Safana?"

"You must be joking! If I named Safana, she'd backstab me herself to get hold of my money!" Freya laughed. She loved her pack dearly, but she also knew them.

"Say; Coran and his children," Viconia suggested. "Of which I suspect there are many. And even if there aren't, there are a hundred women out there who could probably _claim_ that their children are Coran's and it'd be difficult to disprove."

Freya grunted her assent, bounded back up to the wooden platform and held up her hands for silence. A hush fell over the crowd as noble and commoner alike waited for the Hero to speak.

"Coran _and_ his children, legitimate or otherwise," Freya corrected herself. She shot a triumphant look at the Duke. "Give it up. Your scheme has failed. Now bring back my wife," she snarled. "And I will allow you to retire comfortably from public life. Far away from Baldur's Gate."

"I cannot!" the Duke repeated. "I swear I cannot! Duke Belt, we have known each other since infancy. You cannot believe that I would murder my own little girl."

But the judge looked doubtful.

"Murder, no," he said slowly, "Unless you were certain that you had the means to bring her back." He held up his hands and addressed the people. "I need some time to deliberate on this. Lady Silvershield, if you would oblige me by returning to your cell for the time being? I… apologise for the inconvenience."

The Hero nodded and held up a reassuring palm to her supporters. On her way down from the scaffold she passed Duke Silvershield. She dipped her golden head toward him and muttered a bleak warning.

"Bring her back," repeated Freya. "Or when all this is over no amount of Skie's pleading on your behalf is going to save you."

"The Flaming Fist will take custody of the prisoner until a decision is reached," the judge announced. "Take her away."

Everybody was unhappy with this, but the people were not ready to riot just yet. The Fist had large swords and appeared to be of the same mind. No sense storming their headquarters and fighting those tin men unless there was actually a need. Yet they were willing to if it came to it, and that evening there was a rush on the armour markets and a sharpening of pitchforks.

Arrow climbed down from the bed, hastening to reposition it before the guards returned with Freya. It was poorly made and her hand came away with splinters. Jaheira was glaring at her accusingly, and Khalid looked unhappy.

"What?" asked Arrow, sucking the sharp little wooden shards from her fingers.

"You joined the Blue Beards?" Jaheira groaned at her despairingly. "Why? What in the name of Silvanus were you thinking?"

"I understood the risks," said Arrow defensively. "But most people are little more than slaves to the nobility! Doling out soup to the poor and bandaging wounds can only do so much. This is a chance to really change things!"

"You've never seen a real slave have you?" Viconia asked idly from the next cell. "Trust me, the citizens of Baldur's Gate are a lot better off than slaves."

"Shut up Viconia!" Arrow and Jaheira snapped in unison.

Viconia rolled her eyes and waited for Freya. She was no longer very worried. Not after how she had seen the crowds respond to her protector. Even if the Flaming Fist were powerful enough to hang Freya, which was highly questionable, the will was not there.

"It is not about the r- r- risk," Khalid sighed to Arrow. "Skie was g- good for the city. The Harpers w- wanted stable leadership to protect the b- b- balance."

"The Blue Beards would bring chaos to the region," Jaheira agreed. "Even if they manage to form a stable government, which is highly unlikely, their neighbours would never allow them to succeed. Do you think the nobles of Amn want their people looking next door and seeing a successful peasant state? It'd give them ideas."

"As it should!" Arrow cried.

"They'd b- block trade, send in saboteurs, maybe even inv- v- ade!" Khalid nodded. "And the leaders of the Blue Beards would become the new aristocracy anyway. Don't be so n- naive!"

"Stop talking to me like I'm a child!" Arrow retorted, starting to get angry. When she saw them coming she had assumed they were going to tell her everything was ok and get her out, not lecture her like she was the one who had done something wrong.

"Then s- s- stop behaving like one!" Khalid yelled. He had never raised his voice to her before.

"Your visiting time is over," said Bence, returning with Freya. "Get out.

Arrow watched them go, then retreated to the corner of her cell crying. She cried silently, as she always had, but this time she made an extra effort not to make a sound so that Viconia would not hear her. The drow nestled into the werewolf for warmth and Arrow could hear her mumbling to her in a low voice, though she could not catch the words. Freya was answering in growls. For once Arrow envied her lycanthropy. It would be lovely to turn into a giant shaggy wolf against the cold of the cells.

It was not until the next morning that the Bhaalspawn's romantic interests came to visit them. The attention was of little comfort in either case, but it was the monk who turned up first. The slow clump of his footsteps toward the cell did not attract the ranger's attention immediately. She was still stewing. Judgemental yelling was the sort of thing she expected from Jaheira, but Khalid? And they had made no mention of when, or even if, she would be released.

When she happened to look up and caught sight of Rasaad's concerned face staring sadly back at her, she almost jumped out of her skin. Hastily she wiped the tears from her face, aware that she had not washed in some time, and got to her feet.

"Moon monk! Get us out of here!" Viconia commanded.

"They'll let us out," said Freya wearily. "One way or another. Be patient Viconia. Let's not resort to violence unless it's actually necessary."

The monk bowed to his fellow Selunite, but it was a stiff bow. His deep, dark eyes were accusing and a muscle twitched in his jaw. There was something haggard about him, as though he had not slept properly. Arrow wondered why it had taken him so long to come. Had the guards prevented him, or had he been trying to get her out? The answer, it transpired was neither. He gave a reason and she was not wholly pleased with it.

"I concur, but avoiding violence may not be possible," he said darkly. "More followers of Selune have been abducted around the city. I had to investigate while the trail was still fresh. Forgive me for not coming sooner."

It took a moment for these words to sink in. When they did, Arrow was not entirely sure that she _did_ forgive him. She waited for some additional explanation, but none was forthcoming.

"I… I see," she said.

"Captain Corwin agrees with me that it may be the work of the Dark Moon Cult," he went on, a shadow falling across his face. "But obviously she is too distracted to pursue the case at present." He gestured to the prisoners.

"Yes, I imagine our predicament is distracting her," said Arrow, bewildered, "But it does not seem to be distracting you?"

Rasaad peered into the adjoining cell at Freya and his face grew puzzled. What he could see, and Arrow could not, was his party leader silently trying to warn him of the danger he was heading into. Freya had been married, albeit briefly, and unlike Rasaad had some experience with relationships. What the Hero was trying to communicate was; _'Hey Rasaad! People in danger of hanging tend not to appreciate it when their partners prioritise rescuing strangers over them. You're being a bit of a cold fish!"_ Unfortunately this did not translate well into gestures. Particularly the part about the fish.

"This may have been the work of Alorgoth, the man who slew my brother!" Rasaad cried, his eyes flashing. "I would pursue him to the afterlife and back if I had to. Nothing could distract me!"

There was a pause, in which Freya facepalmed. Under other circumstances Viconia might have found this outburst entertaining, but his remark applied as much to her as to Arowan. She, after all, was trapped down here too.

"I do apologise for the inconvenience," Arrow said in a voice that could have curdled milk. "I'll try to be executed as quickly as possible so that you can get back to what you were doing."

"Arrow, you won't hang!" Freya interjected impatiently. "We'd have let you sweat for a couple of days then released you. I still will, provided they let me out. You waved a fucking banner. Skie's got a temper but she won't execute you for that…" She trailed off, realising that she had slipped into the present tense talking about Skie. It was hard to believe that her wife was really gone.

"Arowan, I did not mean-" Rasaad began.

"No, no. Don't let me take up another moment of your time!" she replied, her voice rising hysterically. BENCE!"

The footsteps of the guards approached. They were not a patient bunch and would not allow the visit to continue having been called. Rasaad grabbed the bar and spoke urgently to Arrow, who had turned her back on him.

"Arowan, the Fist will fight for Freya but the Blue Beards are willing to fight to free you," he said, "Only there aren't enough of them. It'll be a blood bath. I told them you wouldn't want them to. Was I right?"

Tears pricked once more in Arrow's eyes and she could not bring herself to look at him. Her throat constricted. Had nothing they'd shared meant anything to him that he was willing to let her go so easily?

"You were right. I don't want the Blue Beards to fight for me," she said quietly. It was only in her head that she thought, _"I wanted YOU to fight for me."_

Rasaad sighed. He did seem sad but at the same time completely resigned to the situation. Even Freya, who was the one who'd locked her in here in the first place, seemed more concerned with whether she got out. Arrow felt herself freezing inside, unable to think of anything to say.

"If Selune wills it, we will meet again Arowan," Rasaad said gently. "And if she is not willing, I shall take what solace I can in the memory of our time together. Farewell."

The ranger echoed his farewell and paced slowly to her bed, lowering herself onto it gingerly. Rasaad was walking away as she tried to process what she had just heard. It stirred up a confusing mixture of feelings, none of them positive. She would have days ahead of her with nothing to do but stew on them. Principle among her feelings was an overwhelming sense of having been duped. She had known, always known, that Rasaad was lukewarm. How many times had he picked her up and dropped her?

Yet she had convinced herself that this time was different. Why? Because they'd had sex? There was no way she could believe him callous enough to intentionally use her. She was sure it had meant _something_ to him. Just not enough, apparently.

"Woah, woah, woah! Just to be clear: I am not on board with Arowan's little martyr complex!" Freya cried. "Tell the gnomes whatever you like but don't be saying to the Fist not to fight for me! Raise a fucking rebellion if you have to, I don't want to die!"

Viconia seconded this statement vehemently. She reminded him forcefully that she was the Servant of all Faiths and that if honour demanded he save her from Dorn, then surely he must also save her from this.

Her mention of Rasaad's involvement in that fight was not lost on Arrow in her neighbouring cell. The monk had lied to her so that he could go cavorting with Viconia? Loneliness and disappointment were becoming rapidly replaced with anger. The fact that _she_ had also lied to _him_ while she went picketing with Coran was lost on her in that moment.

Rasaad stopped and turned to answer Freya.

"I should have expected this," he said quietly. "I actually thought after you married Skie you might do the honourable thing for once, but I was a fool to believe that love could grow in a Bhaalspawn's heart."

"Son of a bitch!" screamed Freya. "If you dare accuse me of murdering my wife too, I swear after they hang me, I will wait for you in Selune's domain and when you get there…!"

"Look at the mess you have landed Arrow in!" Rasaad retorted. "Do not take me for a fool. Someone who gives in to whatever whim or desire that crosses their mind cannot be trusted! This I knew. Yet even after I saw what happens when you lose your grip, still I followed you and your evil party. May Selune forgive me!"

As with Arrow, the monk had no sense of the effect his words had on the Sharran cleric. Both Arrow and Viconia slipped into their beds and pulled the filthy sheets over their heads. It smelt horrendous but was preferable to letting him see them cry. In that instant the two women had more in common than they ever would again.

"You know damn well that if I'd lost control to the wolf, Skie's death would never have been so fucking tidy!" snarled Freya. "And screw Arrow! She got herself into this mess and she's a Bhaalspawn too!"

"Thanks a bunch both of you," muttered the ranger. Rasaad took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I know that you did not kill Skie," he said to Freya, as Bence grabbed his arm and began dragging him away. "In your heart I do not think you truly evil, but you are the wrong side of neutral. You could be so much more."

"Could I be better?" laughed Freya, bitterly. Glint's words had stuck with her, but her brief attempt to follow them had ended in disaster, for everyone. "No… I don't think so. Freaks and monsters don't get happy endings."

Rasaad did not get a chance to reply before he was dragged out. The door into the hall of cells slammed shut and he found himself face to face with Captain Corwin. She looked as pale as death, but her expression was locked in a rigid scowl. He gave a bow which she returned with a curt nod.

"She is as well as can be expected," Rasaad said.

"I didn't come here to ask after her health," Corwin replied harshly. "Can I help you, monk?"

The three prisoners strained to hear what they were saying, for each had a vested interest in the outcome. Yet to the annoyance of all three women, Arrow especially, he started calmly asking about the missing Selunite monks!

Arrow curled up like an injured hedgehog. So that was it then? _'Oh well. Never mind. If Selune crosses our paths again great, if not… meh?_ ' Supposing they really did hang her? Would he stand in the crowd impassively and watch her suffocate on the end of a rope? Or would he not even do her the courtesy of turning up? She felt cold, used and very alone.

Corwin had no interest in Arrow whatsoever. Perhaps she hadn't even remembered that she was there. Yet she noticed Viconia, huddled under her own blanket and it was the cleric she addressed first.

"Well, you hitched your wagon to the wrong horse, drow," she said glibly.

"Have you come to apologise?" Freya asked. "What in the hells did you grab Viconia for? You fought Irenicus with us at full moon, you know who did this!"

"I'm here to ask you to end this madness," Corwin replied. She was trying to come across as a detached policewoman but her voice was faltering. "The city's endured much of late. The iron crisis, the crusade, Sarevok… and now this. You're about to cause a civil war, Freya."

"What are you saying, that I should let them hang me?" Freya laughed. Corwin's face remained frozen, and the werewolf stopped laughing as it dawned on her that the other woman was being serious.

"The dark days must end." Corwin said in a severe voice. "And they won't. Not with you languishing here claiming innocence. If you care for Baldur's Gate, even a little, admit your crime. Accept the punishment given to you."

As Corwin spoke, her voice began to rattle. Golden fur sprouted in random tufts from the werewolf's hands and face. Viconia flung the blanket off and backed into the corner in alarm, trapped with a werewolf who was losing her grip.

She still had her armour, for all the good that would do. The guards had not bothered to disarm the cleric, not when her party leader was still fully laden. Stripping Freya of her armour and weapons was impossible. Charm and Hold Person spells wouldn't stick on the artificially enhanced Hero, and as for taking them in her sleep, she could prevent that simply by transforming. Though at this moment transforming was the one thing Viconia was praying she wouldn't do.

"Fuck you Corwin!" bellowed Freya, kicking the door to her cell so hard that Arrow felt the vibration through the floor.

"Smart move sister, that sort of behaviour will surely convince her you're not a violent murderer," sneered Arrow.

"She knows I didn't kill Skie," raged Freya, attempting to lock eyes with Corwin. The Captain stared resolutely at the wall behind her, unwilling or unable to meet her eye. "I'm done listening to your bullshit. You don't give a rat's anus about your men or the city. You're just trying to save your own skin! Coward!"

"Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you!" yelled Corwin.

"At least I'm capable of shutting my mouth," barked Freya. "I'm not the one who has permanent lockjaw from sucking the Duke's cock! Your daughter must be so proud!"

"PASS ME THE KEYS!" screamed Corwin.

But poor charmed Bence would not pass her the keys. Besides, it seemed that they were not yet done with visitors, for as he led his livid Captain away they passed Duke Silvershield. He stepped in to survey the cells, stroking his beard. The judge knew nothing of this, and had Irenicus not charmed Freya's jailors it would never have been allowed. At the sound of his voice, Clara ducked under her own blanket to hide. The Duke knew who she was! Yet her cell was farthest from the entrance, followed by Arrow and then Freya and Viconia. He did not get as far as seeing her and she was positioned to listen, just as Irenicus had intended.

"It seems you will not be convicted, Bhaalspawn," he said slowly. "I'd hoped Corwin might persuade you to fall on your sword for the city… but judging by the screaming I heard on my way in, I assume that this is a non-starter."

"You're in league with Irenicus!" spat Freya. "You killed my wife, you bastard! Your own daughter!"

" _You_ killed my Skie by leaving her!" Duke Silvershield hissed. A rare burst of guilt seared through Freya. It was true that had they not fought, had she not run away and left her vulnerable, this could never have happened. The Duke held up his finger.

"A geas ring!" Viconia said in a horrified whisper.

"He has my Skie's soul, I have no option but to follow his instructions, ring or no ring!" the Duke lamented. "He has agreed to give me the dagger back so that I can revive her. Her body is being maintained by wizards. Fed, cleaned and watered it will not die. But the foul wizard demands I give him something in return."

Freya's knuckles tightened over the bars to her cell and her fur receded. The Duke watched her calculatingly as she took a few deep breaths. Though she was stronger now and her enemy weaker, Irenicus had long been the only thing that she was really afraid of. There could be no doubt of what the broken wizard wanted.

"Me."

"You."

There was another long silence. Freya would rather do anything than this. She cared for Skie, but not enough for this. If there was anyone she would suffer Irenicus's torments for it was Coran and Safana. If she wouldn't do it for her thieves, she wouldn't do it for Skie.

Except for the divine debt.

Bhaal had left his debt to Skie's ancestor, the old Duke, unpaid and it burned in Freya's veins. It compelled her as a felled tree is forced to fall. As Caelar had no choice but to repay her divine debt to Aun Argent by freeing him, so Freya had no choice now.

"So be it," she said in a constricted voice.

"I said I would deliver you to Irenicus outside of the city," said the Duke, fingering the ring carefully. Though her blood was running cold, Arrow was once more reminded of how important the phrasing of a geas was. "I did not promise that you would be unarmed. Or alone."

Viconia stepped out of her corner and up to the werewolf's right-hand side. Her expression was grim but determined.

"Viconia," said Freya, "I cannot ask you to do this."

"You are my protector in this bright and hostile world, abbil," Viconia said. "I will never find a better one. I believe that you will defeat Irenicus and I remain at your side accordingly.

"Thank you Viconia," Freya said. "Your friendship now means a great deal."

"Friendship?!" spluttered Viconia, outraged. "Do not flatter yourself. Our alliance is pragmatic, based on mutual necessity. I make a tactical decision to follow you!"

In spite of the situation, Freya smiled.

"There are others who would fight alongside you," Duke Silvershield went on, as he unlocked the cage. "I will let them in on my way out. Now, listen carefully. Outside this room are steps to the cellars, and inside is an entrance to the sewers. I have given the grate key and a map to one of your friends. It will lead you outside of the city… where he will be waiting for you."

"Sewers," Freya groaned. It was better than prison but it would be hard on her canine nose.

"I am giving you a chance to fight back and retrieve Soultaker by force," Duke Silvershield said, "But should you fail Skie still has a chance; my bargain with Irenicus. You must not tell him that I double crossed him. Your friends have vowed to take the secret to the grave. You must swear it too."

"I swear it," said Freya and Viconia together.

"I swear it," said Arrow. The Duke peered into the third cell, but it appeared to be unoccupied. While they were talking Clara had flattened herself between the bed and the mattress.

"Bring back my daughter's soul werewolf," snarled the Duke. "Fail her again and I swear that she will wear your flayed fur as her funeral shroud."

Clara smiled to herself. Irenicus would be pleased with this information. Hopefully pleased enough to get around to paying her. As for the Soultaker dagger, she had a feeling that it would remain lost.


	57. Letting Go

Freya would not leave, not until her will have been formally changed. She still did not wholly trust the Duke, and even if she had, she certainly didn't _like_ him. While they waited for the relevant officials to come bearing paperwork, her new would-be party filed in.

Viconia had already pledged to go with her and Imoen, of course, was a given. Arrow did not bother trying to talk her out of it. What would be the point? She had stood between her friends and Freya at full moon when the werewolf had been about to devour them all. She'd defended the wolf, even as it tried to eat her. Nor was she the only one brazenly determined to go.

"Minsc?" said Freya in a hoarse voice. At first it was not clear whether he meant to aid her or attack her. The Soultaker dagger had been used on Skie and Dynaheir so it followed that whoever killed one must also have slain the other.

"You will look Minsc and Boo in the eyes and tell us whether you murdered them!" Minsc bellowed, "And if you lie, we shall know!"

The temptation was strong for some of the more sarcastic members of the group to point out that looking into both sets of eyes simultaneously was impossible. They restrained themselves, however, and Freya gave her answer. With a howl, the berserker flung himself into her arms. His weight would have flattened any of the others, but the Hero managed to keep her balance. Just.

"Dynaheir is dead!" he wailed, bursting into great, unrestrained sobs.

"I know mate, I know," murmured Freya, patting him on his broad back. As far as the rest of them were concerned, she had been dead for days. Her soul was gone. Yet Minsc meant that her body had passed on. Arrow was relieved that it had not been kept going by magical intervention as the Duke was doing to Skie. Dynaheir was past being affected by it, but her passing meant that Minsc could move on. "Look, maybe you should go home for a bit and-"

"No!" Minsc cried, looking horrified at the very notion. "Minsc and Boo must come with you! We have failed our witch. Her body is dead, but Minsc… Minsc can still retrieve her soul!"

"That's right Minsc," smiled Imoen, patting his arm. "At least she and Skie are in there together. They can look after each other until you let them out."

This, Arrow suspected, was a nonsense. How a soul would exist inside the blade, and in what state, was an uncomfortable thought. Whether Skie and Dynaheir would be aware of what had happened to them and feel the passage of time was a secret that perhaps only the dagger's creator would know. She hoped not and it seemed unlikely that these disembodied spirits could communicate with one another. Still the notion seemed to comfort Minsc and that, for now, was the important thing.

Yet there were two more volunteers to join Freya, and these Arrow would not accept going without a fight.

"No, you can't!" she screamed at her parents, trying to yank the door to her cell open and failing. "Don't Khalid! Jaheira! Don't try to take on Irenicus, please! I saw what he did to Eric, you didn't, you have no idea what you are getting yourselves into."

"She's not wrong," said Freya gravely. "The hells are you coming for anyway?"

"The Harpers are sending us," said Jaheira, as though that settled the matter. "Skie has stabilized the whole region, but it is only a matter of time before her father destabilizes it again. He was always incompetent, and that was before he was driven half-mad with grief. Elminster wants Skie back."

Freya did not refuse their help, though privately she did not disagree with Arrow. The werewolf did not want to die, and she especially did not want to be captured by Irenicus. She'd accept whatever help she could get.

"Then I'm coming too!" cried Arrow.

Khalid smiled at her warmly and shook his head. His ginger hair fell over his eyes and he reached through the bars to stroke her chin. They had the keys, but it began to dawn on Arrow that they hadn't the least intention of letting her out.

"No you're not," he said gently. "This is n- no more a job for you than Avernus was."

"It's not a job for you either!" Arrow cried, willing them to understand. "Irenicus is too powerful. Freya might be able to take him but you two are out of your depth! Minsc and Imoen too, but I know they won't listen to me."

"We've faced worse," said Jaheira stubbornly.

"You haven't!" sobbed Arrow. "Let me out. Let me out, please."

"Cease being ridiculous child!" commanded Jaheira imperiously. "If our places were switched there is nothing we could say that would persuade you to unlock the cage and let us fight Irenicus."

"Of course I would!" Arrow lied, in one last lame attempt. "You two mean nothing to me! You're always nagging everyone and Dad's stammer is annoying!"

Both of her parents burst out laughing.

"Is that really the best you can do?" Jaheira smiled, reaching through the bars so that each of them had a hand on her face. "We'll see each other again soon I promise."

While they were talking, Freya placed her signature upon some hastily drawn up paperwork. She returned one copy to the bank's messenger boy and handed the other to Arrow, who screamed and threatened to burn it if they didn't let her out. The party ignored her, said their goodbyes and left.

The next few days were terrible. Only one other prisoner, who had not spoken a word to her the entire time remained, and later that day even she was led out. Arrow was left wholly alone with no news, nobody to talk to and nothing to do. As she stared at the walls she feared for her parents and replayed events, especially their last conversation, over and over in her mind. There must have been something she could have said or done to persuade them not to go, but she had failed to say it.

Had they met Irenicus yet? Her one speck of hope was that the guards were still avoiding her. She was well fed, provided with a basin to wash in and nobody beat her up as they had with Coran. That suggested that they were still wary of the Hero's reaction if any harm came to her sister. And that in turn meant that, at least as far as they knew, Freya was still alive.

She feared sleep. It had been a long time since she had dreamed any events in the lives of the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn. This was because, apart from Freya, they were all dead. The two survivors had been asleep at more or less the same times. Now though, through their link via Imoen, it was only a matter of time before they started up again. Every time she put her head down there was a risk of watching her parents die in her dreams.

It certainly put Rasaad into perspective. When she did think of him it was with mounting anger. He hadn't come to visit her again, though she was fairly certain there was nothing stopping him. Presumably he had been asked to assist Freya at the same time as the others, and declined. At least she was not alone. The Selunites in this city, whom he barely knew, also took precedence over Viconia.

Almost a week had gone by when Arrow heard a scuffling in her cell. She had been careful to eat every crumb of her meals, flavourless though they were, to avoid encouraging rats to approach her. Yet here was one now. A plump, auburn specimen, sitting on his haunches and blinking at her. She hadn't the heart to shoo it. So bored had she grown by this point that any companion, even a rat, would be welcome.

"Come here, come on," she whispered bending down to the ground and holding her hand out. She had expected that it would take weeks to tame the creature, but apparently it was used to prisoners, because it scampered straight into her palm. "There's something familiar about you," she murmured, tickling its tummy. "Am I really talking to a rodent? Ilmater help me, I must be going mad in here. I'm turning into Minsc!"

"Squeak!"

The rodent made an impressive and daring leap from her hand and onto the metal lock of her cell. Its claws left little scratch marks on her palm, though not intentionally. Her rat perched (awkwardly for such a rounded creature) and peered over the sides of the lock. It pressed its beetle-like eye to the keyhole and tried to press its nose inside.

"Nothing to eat in there, little friend," she sighed. "Come back tomorrow, and I'll save you something." The rat finished his inspection of the lock. He peered carefully at the floor as though gauging the distance. Arrow laughed. "I think you're a bit portly for that. Here, climb down my arm."

The auburn creature scuttled down her and onto the floor, then disappeared through a crack in the walls, his little claws click clicking. Longing welled up in Arrow to follow it and be outdoors again, with the trees and running water and craggy rocks under which hundreds of little creatures made their homes.

The night once more brought no dreams, and the morning no visitors. She left a few crumbs from breakfast with which to tempt back her new friend should he come again. All morning and afternoon she watched for him, and had almost given up on him ever coming back. It was only after the guards had delivered supper and left that the furry face reappeared. This time he came through the high, barred window through which they had spoken to Freya during her trial. It squeaked frantically to get her attention, then darted out of sight.

_Clink, clink, clink._

Three bottled potions lined up against the bars. The rat appeared beside them, as round as any of the bulbous flasks and motioned nudging them with his nose. Arrow understood and made a hand-basket to catch them. One by one, the auburn rat rammed the bottles with his head until they fell into the cell and she caught them. Then she made one last basket and the rat jumped.

"Rasaad?" she cried. She had misjudged the monk after all! He had simply been gathering resources and waiting for his chance to do… whatever this was. The rat scampered to a honey-gold potion and squeaked. Arrow uncorked the bottle and poured the potion into her dish. The rat slurped it with his tongue until suddenly his ears and limbs were lengthening and his auburn fur receding from everywhere but his head. His black eyes turned green and before her stood…

"Not Rasaad. Not this time sweetling. I'm sorry," Coran said with a sad half smile. To her surprise Arrow found she didn't care. She was free! The elf's eyes widened in surprise at finding her lips pressed enthusiastically against his.

"Let's go!" Arrow gasped in an excited whisper as they broke apart. "What's the plan?"

Coran held up the remaining two potions with a grin. This was turning into his kind of adventure. He'd been worried, upon inspecting the lock the previous day, that it was beyond his ability to unpick. Though he'd come up with an alternative solution, he was not looking forward to telling Arrow that she would be scurrying out of the city through the sewers, or that Rasaad had talked the Blue Beards _out_ of trying to save her, despite his objections.

"Whiskers out, through the sewers, then wait in the woods while I find Rasaad," said Coran. "It might take some time. There's something strange going on there. He mentioned having a lead on his brother's killer Alorgoth."

"Don't bother. I've grown tired of waiting in this miserable cage, and I'm tired of Rasaad!" laughed Arrow. "He may have the largest muscles I've ever seen, but he has the smallest, coldest heart. Let him inflict his gloom and angst upon somebody else."

"In my experience looks are rarely a substitute for fun," Coran agreed with a sigh, peering around the bars for any sign of the guards. Then his emerald eyes brightened, "On the subject of fun…"

But Arrow was way ahead of him and had already downed the potion while he was talking. A lean, chocolate brown rat had appeared in the cell and Coran could tell at once that he would have trouble keeping up with her. An athletic ranger, cooped up so long in such a tiny space. It had sent her half-mad with suppressed energy. She was zipping round and round the cell like a deranged housefly. With a powerful thrust of her back legs that rat-Coran could never have managed, she jumped onto the bed and leapt from it as far as she could, just for the hell of it.

"Well, alright then," grinned Coran, necking his own potion. Soon the auburn rat was leading the brown through a crack in the wall and out into the sewers.

He wished he had warned her about some of the nastier denizens in advance, because Arrow had so much repressed vigour that she was streaking through them with no regard for safety or basic common sense. What followed was a mad, terrifying chase, fuelled on raw adrenaline past territorial rival rats, slimes on the hunt and kobolds in want of a meal.

It cumulated in a great underground waterfall of sewage, which fortunately was far more palatable in rat form. Arrow was pelting toward it, showing not the least intention of slowing down or stopping. With a piercing shriek, the brown rat leapt over the edge and Coran had no choice but to follow her. They emerged, shortly afterward, from a grate flowing out of the city and paddled some way down the river before dragging themselves to shore.

There was nothing to do then but shake themselves dry and wait for the polymorph potions to wear off. Arrow set about using her ranger skills to pack them as full as possible with the berries and bugs that rats were happy to eat.

"How are you feeling?" Coran asked tentatively, as they resumed their human forms. Exhilarated was the short answer. She ran ahead of him through the woods and by the time he was too tired to go any further, they had put enough distance between themselves and the city to safely make camp. "Alright, slow down!" he laughed. "I brought a spare bedroll but I've only got the one tent. Can we share? I won't try anything."

"Why? Because of Safana?" Arrow asked light-heartedly. The autumn leaves were swirling all around them and she was enjoying their musty smell and the crunch between her toes.

Coran grinned. "I have something for you," he said, unhitching the longbows from his back. For the first time Arrow noticed that there were two. "I pinched it from the guard house while I was sniffing around." The ranger's eyes widened, then she laughed delightedly.

It was Captain Corwin's bow. The thumping great thing she'd spent half her treasure on, that looked like it was built to take down dragons. Arrow was astonished that the thief didn't want to keep it for himself, but perhaps it would attract too much attention. She needn't worry about being spotted though. There were woods and meadows from here to the mountains, and she needn't even approach the roads save to cross them.

The ranger wanted to try it out at once. Coran set up the tent and lit a small fire while Arrow went hunting. She returned empty-handed, and the elf suspected that she had been tearing through the woods for the sheer joy of it, rather than making any serious attempt to catch anything. Fortunately he had some provisions, and her happiness at being set free had not dimmed in the slightest.

"Where will you go?" he asked her.

"Do you have any idea where Freya went with my parents?" Arrow asked, a hint of worry creeping back into her voice. Coran shook his head. He had heard nothing from Freya since she had exiled him. Strictly speaking he should not have been in the city at all, but he'd been staying with an old 'friend' who had also supplied him with the potions. "The Cloud Peaks then," smiled Arrow. "I was offered a job as ranger there and I intend to take it."

"I'm headed West in the morning," he said vaguely. "Safana's arranged to have our treasure shipped to Amn by sea from one of the smaller ports. Seemed to think it would be safer than taking the road. Assuming she doesn't take it all for herself and vanish of course. That's always a possibility."

It was not a possibility that seemed to bother him too much. Easy come, easy go. He was not a man who got possessive over objects or people, which was why Arrow thought it safe to lean in to him a little.

The sun was setting in orange and gold but there was a decided chill in the air. She shivered, noticing the cold for the first time, and Coran wrapped his cloak around her. After, he didn't move away. Arrow's hair, which was past her shoulders now, was thick and dark with a slight wave to it. The fire crackled as it began to die out, the embers reflecting in the elf's green eyes.

"You know, you make a surprisingly attractive rat," the elf observed.

"Not a chance, you strange man!" Arrow spluttered, thumping him in a friendly way. Coran looked confused, there was a decided discrepancy between her words and her body language. Then he realised how his tongue-in-cheek compliment had been misinterpreted.

"I wasn't suggesting that we have sex _as_ _rats!_ " he gasped. Arrow bent over, her ribs shaking with mirth.

"I wouldn't put it past you!"

"I consider myself an adventurous romantic," Coran declared proudly, "But I have never dabbled in bestiality. At least… not on purpose."

"Not on purpose?" Arrow wheezed.

"There was an incident with a wolfwere… cultural misunderstanding… you don't want to know," Coran muttered. To her delight she had actually made him blush.

Arrow cuddled into the side of him, feeling the comforting thump of his heart. The elf stroked her hair, feeling the soft waves flow beneath his fingers, and quickly forgot his promise not to try anything. He leaned in questioningly, and finding her response no less energetic than her behaviour as a rat, pressed against her lips more earnestly. They spent the night together again and next morning, as a chilly fog curled around the tent, they filled the bedroll with crumbs rather than getting up for breakfast.

"Well, time to go," sighed Arrow as the sun rose higher in the sky. "How far is your port?"

"Two days hike but there's an Inn on the way," said Coran, stretching. "You take the tent, you'll need it more. Here, I have a spare rat potion. Take it, just in case."

"Thanks," laughed Arrow. "Were they your idea or your friend's?"

"Brielbara's," Coran admitted sheepishly. "I think she was afraid I might get killed. Not that she doesn't think I deserve it but I'm paying her a stipend for my daughter and…"

" _What?_ " yelped Arrow, tossing a half-eaten bread roll at his head. "I didn't know that! I wouldn't have slept with the father of someone else's kid!"

"Good thing Brielbara does not share your sentiments, or my sweet Namara would never have existed," remarked Coran. Arrow was appalled but could not help collapsing into laughter. She felt around for her contraceptive potion and took a large swig. More than the recommended three drops. Coran raised an eyebrow and she shrugged.

"Just making sure." She glared at the bottle suspiciously. "These things don't expire, do they?"

"If they do, we're not getting married," quipped Coran.

"If they do, Arrow Junior is turning up in a basket on your doorstep!" retorted Arrow, who was only half-joking. Tending to the refugees meant that for the first time in her life she had seen what was actually involved in raising small children. The daily terror of the mothers at losing them. How going anywhere or doing anything spontaneously was almost impossible. It'd drive her mad, she was certain of it.

They packed up their things good humouredly, neither one seriously imagining that Arrow might be pregnant. She was sure that if the potions did have a use by date, her mother would have warned her. It was unlike Jaheira to leave _any_ detail out of one of her sex talks. Especially one as crucial as that.

"You know I bet this Brielbara would have worried less about you dying if she knew how rich it might make her daughter," laughed Arrow suddenly. "Little Namara is second-in-line to become the wealthiest noble in Baldur's gate, after you." She remembered Freya's will, pulled it out and handed it to him. Coran's brow furrowed as he read.

"Freya expects to die then?" he asked, in a constricted voice.

"No, no, I think it was more a precaution," Arrow reassured him. "So that the Duke wouldn't get his hands on her money. Just in case."

The elf looked unconvinced, but there was nothing he could do. He had no idea where Freya was and would only find out when the Hero re-emerged. If she had been captured by Irenicus they had no way to know even where to begin looking. He had first turned up in Baeloth's Pits, stalking Eric, across the ocean and underground. That made the entire world a potential location for his base.

They said their farewells and Arrow watched him go, still pondering the letter with a troubled expression. He was probably the only man in Baldur's Gate who didn't want to be Lady Freya's heir. Still, at least it would make Safana happy.

Her journey to the mountains was long and uneventful, save for an incident at the Friendly Arm Inn. She hoped to overhear some news of Khalid and Jaheira who were frequent visitors. With the cooler weather, her early attempts at hunting were unsuccessful and the lure of their kitchens proved irresistible. Sauntering in as herself was totally out of the question but she had a last rat potion.

Unfortunately this plan had backfired rather spectacularly when she was confronted, as she emerged from a barrel of apples, by the Friendly Arm's resident cat. Arrow knew this feline of old as a vicious hunter. Heart pumping in terror, she streaked out of the barrel and across the tabletops earning shrieks of horror from the cook. The cat pelted after her, sending roast dinners and ale flying from the trays.

She only escaped by flinging herself through an open window and hiding in a crack in the walls until she felt the potion wearing off. Damned if after surviving everything else she was going to be gobbled up by a domestic moggy! Only then was she able to creep out and make a hasty exit with her cloak pulled over her face. Arrow did not risk it again.

Not wanting to encounter the Flaming Fist, she avoided the roads until she crossed the Northern border with Amn. There, in Nashkel, she felt safe enough to make use of the taverns. Amnian soldiers were not going to care that she waved a wooden sign in Baldur's Gate. It was only in passing the place where she first met Rasaad that she felt a twinge of regret about the monk.

Yet the feeling was only brief. He had his issues from being raised by the Selunites. Freya had explained and she had understood, but she'd had enough. He would never change and, in her heart, she knew that Viconia had been right all along. No matter how hard he tried to, Rasaad would never truly forgive the death of his brother, nor anyone involved in it. And that included Arowan.

She set her sights to the Cloud Peaks and when she got there, her welcome by the villages' mayor was as enthusiastic as her leaving had been regretted. They were a remote, scattered collection of settlements who had not had a ranger for many years. Trolls and other feral beasts roamed the land, and they had multiplied unhindered since the destruction of the Dark Moon Cult. Ironically the defeat of Gamaz had made things rather worse for the locals, for now there were no warriors of any description to keep the monsters in check.

Arowan's eyes flickered longingly to the snow-capped mountains. It was a while before she got to scale one. Clearing the lands between the villages took months, but as soon as things were reasonably safe again, she set off climbing the nearest. Not Gamaz's mountain, she had no desire to go there or see the abandoned temple. The priests of Tempus had not yet reclaimed it and the villagers believed the place cursed. Arrow agreed with them and pressed on them that they must never go there. Even if Gamaz had left no traps, and none of his experiments had survived, explorers minds could still be scarred by what they might see.

She pitched her tent on the edge of the forest, a short climb from the snowline and hiked up the rest of the way. Her lengthening hair flowed out behind her. Everything was pure and sparkling with snow. There was nobody within a day's reach of her. She was free to wander where she liked, do what she liked, throw the snow above her head and let it fall about her like raining diamonds.

"Praise Ilmater!" she whispered, as cold, glittering flakes kissed her cheeks. "I'm free."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...the cold never bothered me anywaaaaaay!
> 
> Wasn't intended to be Arrow-does-Queen-Elsa but kinda was when I read it back. :P


	58. Fragments

"Push her out!"

"I can't! I don't know how!" wailed Imoen.

"You are not trying!" Irenicus thundered in frustration. "Cooperate or I will shut you in with the tanks again!"

She whimpered. Out of all the horrors this dungeon yielded, the tanks were what she feared the most. They contained the mutilated remains of his followers and experiments. Creatures incapable of sustaining their own lives, but not permitted to die. Floating in their tanks, kept alive and in agony by twisted magics.

Irenicus towered over her, reading her face intently. He could not subject Imoen to the same intensity of physical torture that he had inflicted on Freya. A normal human would not survive, and were she to die she would take those precious fragments of Bhaalspawn soul to the afterlife with her.

"Do not make the mistake of believing that this is as bad as it gets," he said coldly. "It can be made worse. Much worse. Would you care for a demonstration on one of your friends?"

Imoen shook her head mutely and started to sob again. He watched her dispassionately. Tiresome behaviour, though at least better than that of the werewolf. Freya was proving a more problematic captive even than her addict brother. Eric had only wept constantly, refused to eat and shivered in pools of his own fluids whereas the werewolf…

A long, blood curdling howl rang up from the lower dungeons. He winced, despite himself, and his hand moved automatically to his midriff. Capturing her had been no easy task. He had used an illusion, a cage on wheels modified to look like an Inn. It had half-worked and he had lured them in successfully. Only, before his henchmen could shut the door that filthy drow of hers had noticed.

After a bitter battle he had succeeded in closing the cage door but at a price. Freya's claws had ripped open his abdomen, and as he tried to hold in his own guts, her snout had poked between the bars and torn a chunk from his cheek. These were wounds that in his cursed state would never truly heal. He had been forced to staple his torso shut and sew a patch of elf skin over his exposed jawbone. The pain was constant, and blighted his sleep.

How he would have punished the wretched drow if she hadn't got away. Still, no matter. A lone drow in the city of Athkatla without money or possessions. Viconia DeVir was as good as dead anyway.

He was just about to resume tormenting Imoen when an angry hiss distracted him. Bodhi was back. Irenicus turned away from the chimera, allowing her time to contemplate her surroundings. The exile had deliberately chosen to bring her into what he called 'Little Suldanessellar'. Dangling around the walls were people-shaped iron cages where he liked to entertain visitors from his former city. Some had come in search of him, sent by Queen Ellesime. Others had merely been unlucky enough to cross his path by accident. Whenever he caught one, he popped them into a cage to hang beside their fellows, and walked away.

"Excellent, sister. I see you have reformed," Irenicus noted, uncaringly. "I subjected Freya to an extensive regime of lightning and fireballs while you were away. It had more of an effect this time, she has lost an eye."

Imoen screamed in horror and fury but she stopped sobbing. Instead she charged Irenicus, clawing and biting at him like a feral beast. She certainly looked like one. Her hair was so laden with grease that it was hard to tell its usual colour. Fascinating. The feeble chimera showed abject, grovelling terror except in defence of the Bhaalspawn whose souls made up her own. Then she displayed a rabid hatred worthy of her stolen heritage.

He paid her attack no heed, for she was not capable of harming him and turned back to his 'sister.'

"Well?" he said, displeased that Bodhi was still standing there. "Go and see whether she can be safely removed from the cage yet."

"I only just reformed. _Again!_ " Bodhi argued. "Can I at least eat first?"

"Consume one of the duergar if you like," Irenicus replied impatiently, "But make it a working lunch. There are only so many experiments I can conduct on the Bhaalspawn from a distance. As for you, Imoen, if you will not separate Freya's piece of soul from the rest of you, perhaps it can be persuaded to detach itself. Let us try an alternative approach."

Bodhi slunk down the dank tunnels muttering to herself. Since, as a vampire, she could turn to gas and regenerate, it fell to her to test Freya's remaining strength. So far she had not even come close to overpowering her. Once the Hero had faked being subdued but the test came when Bodhi tried to deprive her of her weapons, and failed.

She may have the power to regenerate but that didn't lessen the pain of having her body carved into slices. When she reached the cage, she found the werewolf sitting cross legged, her functioning eye closed. Breathing deeply and trying to meditate. Despite everything it seemed that she was still determined to keep the wolf under control. Her one, grey eye shot open when she sensed Bodhi's approach.

"You're back. Did you have a nice sleep dust bunny?"

Her brother's efforts had yielded some effect. Freya's cracked voice came from a dark corner of her cage. It was the same wheeled cage that they had caught her in. Though her companions had been teleported out, such spells did not stick on the unwilling Hero. Nor did Hold Person, paralysis, sleep or anything else they had tried.

Even in her natural slumber, she transformed to prevent them from removing her armour. The golden fur coat glittering in the darkness at night. Bodhi could not help liking it, as much as she hated its owner. It was something beautiful amongst the foulness that her 'brother' created wherever he went. It reminded her of the lovely objects she had once owned in Suldanessellar. With Freya unable to escape and her captors unable to subdue her, they had reached something of a stalemate.

"You have been a very bad dog," Bodhi said, coldly.

"Now there's a promising opening line," Freya grinned. "Open the cage babe. I get worse."

"Filth," spat Bodhi.

She knew what was coming, it was clear from the Hero's tone. Their captive Bhaalspawn was no wit nor a great actress. If she was behaving in such a cocky way it was because she fully expected to chop Bodhi to pieces. The vampire was getting the sense that her prisoner looked forward to it. She probably would too if their places were switched.

If only there were another way to restore herself and be rid of Ellesime's life draining curse. She had tried, through becoming a vampire, but it hadn't worked. As it was she was bound to Irenicus, as her only hope. Yet it might all still be worth it, if he achieved ascension. After her first century sat at the right hand of a god, would any of this still seem important?

"Y'know I always wanted to fuck a vampire," the werewolf baited her. "Ever wonder what would happen if we were to bite each other?"

"Don't temp me to find out, puppy-dog."

"I'm game if you are!" Freya quipped. The croak in her voice was there again and she was moving slower in the cage. Irenicus was wearing her down, and one day Bodhi would go in there and subdue her, but not today. She was putting off the moment when she must fly in her bat form into the cage.

It had to be done. Being killed by Freya repeatedly was nothing compared to what Irenicus would subject her to if she refused. As she got a better look at her foe, it was clear that Jon had exaggerated her losing an eye entirely, but the socket was so badly swollen that she could not open it.

"My brother requires your cooperation for his experiments," purred Bodhi. "It has been months. Aren't you bored down here? Take off your armour, drop your weapons and this will all be over sooner. Your resistance is pointless. It will come to the same thing in the end. Better to get it over with quickly, don't you agree?"

"Not if it means forgoing the pleasure of cutting off your head again. Assuming he won't touch me himself?" sneered Freya. "Because you'll come back, and he won't. Do you really want to die over and over on his behalf? Ditch him for me, beautiful. It'll be so much more fun."

"Are you counting on your friends?" laughed Bodhi, suddenly. "Coran and Safana? They're dead. Rasaad? Dead. Little Arowan? Dead. As for the dashing Captain Corwin, she doesn't care whether you live or die."

Freya said nothing. These words might have given her cause for concern were it not for the fact that in Arowan's case she knew that the vampire was lying. The ranger was keeping busy in the mountains somewhere, fighting trolls and driving off kobold tribes. Through the little fragments of their souls that made up Imoen, Candlekeep Bhaalspawn could dream violent episodes in each other's lives. She had been fighting far less frequently, but she wondered if Arrow had seen her slay Bodhi yet.

Not that it really mattered. Arrow was about as capable of helping them against Irenicus as your average tavern bouncer. She could give the ranger no clue as to where they were since she did not know herself. They had thrown a blanket over the caged cart and driven it day and night so that she had no way to know which direction they were headed. Food was thrown in between the bars which seemed to be made from the same material as her chains, she could not break them.

"Or are you waiting for Viconia?" Bodhi sneered. Freya allowed herself a grim half-smile and shook her golden head. She was not so naïve as all that.

She hadn't had an opportunity to get away herself. Once that cage door closed, it stayed closed. They had removed the others from it by teleporting them out into a dark alley. The Hooded Man had started with Imoen. He teleported her in only her small clothes so that her armour, weapons and gear were all left behind her. At once a dozen armed duergar had marched out from a trap door leading underground. They robed her and bound her hands. There, Freya spotted a chance to ensure that at least the Chosen of all Faiths could flee.

"When they teleport Viconia," Freya whispered to the group, "The rest of you need to make a distraction. Fight them, scream, scatter in all directions. Viconia you run toward the cage. If they grab you, I'll grab them. That ought to give you a head start. Then head toward a well lit street and don't look back."

"Why?" was everybody's question including Viconia's. Freya did not have time to explain the warning Eric and Sarevok had given them when Irenicus pulled their shades from the dead. Whatever else, Viconia had to survive. For her, for Arrow, for everyone.

"I swore I'd protect you, Chosen One," the Hero replied.

"Could it be, the Bitch of Baldur's Gate has finally learned a sense of honour?" Viconia gasped, in sarcastic astonishment.

"I know, it's nauseating isn't it?" replied Freya with a sad half-smile. Beside her there was a blue crackle of energy as Jaheira was transported out.

"I just vomited a little in my mouth," agreed Viconia.

"Can I count on you, big fella?" Freya asked Minsc as Khalid too disappeared. Like Imoen he emerged in the alley unarmoured and unarmed. Minsc looked doubtful at the wisdom of saving the evil elf-lady. Yet a well timed squeak from Boo seemed to convince him and he nodded.

The plan had worked. Their captors had been distracted sufficiently to allow one of their number to escape. No sooner than the drow was transported out than the others kicked, bit and scratched their captors, making a tremendous din. Irenicus was more concerned with keeping Imoen contained than any of the others, and so Viconia had fled into the streets of Athkatla, in nothing but a rough flannel robe.

Whereas Freya remained in the cage which they wheeled, donkeys and all, into his underground lair. The donkeys were gone now, long since eaten by the duergar, but the Hero remained in the cage. Underfed and tortured with hostile spells though she was, she reckoned she could still take them if they'd just let her out. Unfortunately, they were wise enough not to attempt it.

Bodhi fluttered to the top of the cage in bat-form and Freya licked her lips threateningly. She'd use her swords again though, not her teeth. She dare not risk transforming. Irenicus was a man who appreciated nothing better than listening to himself ramble, and as he tortured her he kept saying vague things about releasing her potential. Though she'd gathered that this had something to do with Bhaal, it was not her father's aggression he was releasing but the wolf's.

Meditation was difficult with the screams and wails coming from above and the oppressive gloomy surroundings. Then there was the smell… gods the _blood._ It was constant. Fresh and usually human coming off of Bodhi, but it was sloshing around from so many other directions. They were also feeding her the bare minimum to try to weaken her. This and the blood scent were not combining well.

Dark surroundings breed darker thoughts. The Selunite monks who had raised her, her marriage to Skie, Gorion's death, Sarevok. Everyone who had ever looked down on her, sneered at her, for being a wolf or a Bhaalspawn and… and Corwin. She howled again without meaning to. Dwelling on these things was not helping and, slowly but surely, Freya was losing her grip on lycanthropy. Bat-Bodhi shivered, took a deep breath and squeezed between the bars.

From above them, Imoen's shrieks echoed through the complex. With her keen canine hearing, Freya had heard multiple different people, all her companions and some others, being tortured in this underground lair. Often the screams were her own, but this time the tone was different, and it made her profoundly uneasy.

"Well?" Irenicus demanded of Imoen, as he led her out of Little Suldanessellar. Dry crying was the only response he received. "Very well, we will find out if this latest experiment had any effect."

He reached into read her mind once more. Fragments of memory surfaced in a confused jumble. Navigating the individual pieces of the chimera's soul was like moving from one country to another in the space of seconds. He was getting to know them. Draxle's had a bluebell coloured aura, Afoxe more of a fuchsia, Arrow was coffee brown and Thorg dark grey. All of them were sprinkled with the gold of Bhaal's divine essence, though in the ranger's case he had to squint to see the flecks. The two strongest Candlekeep Bhaalspawn, the ones who had inherited most of their father's power, stood out from the others.

Eric's soul was a near-even split between pale grey and divine essence. Freya's, even more powerful, was a dazzling gold. She was barely contaminated by her mortal mother's influence, and Irenicus no longer cared that he had lost Eric. With this Bhaalspawn, claiming the Tree of Life would be simplicity itself.

The first step had been teasing apart the colours, now he had to dislodge them. Irenicus was pleased to see that his latest effort had not been in vain. With the exception of the brown and grey-gold fragments, all of them were pulling away, but the dark grey and golden ones most strongly of all. Interesting. Eric, he supposed, was used to such things after the black pits and Arowan was something of a stoic.

He would have chosen her fragment for Bodhi in the hopes of making his sister less whiney, except that doing so would lay the groundwork for her to take the rest of the ranger. That would make her a rival and he couldn't permit that. No, poor, feeble, and most importantly _dead_ Draxle would do nicely.

His latest experiment was almost enough to detach Freya. Almost. It was frustrating to be so near and yet so far. As he withdrew from her skull, memories sinking and surfacing as he did so, something in her mind caught his attention.

"Khalid," he mused frostily.

"No! No please!" wept Imoen, "He has nothing to do with any of this!"

Yet despite her pleas the duergar were summoned, Khalid was fetched, and Imoen forced to re-enact throwing herself at him in Bridgefort. It had been humiliating enough to start separating the soul pieces first time around. In Imoen's damaged state it gave the golden piece of Freya's soul the last blast needed to break free.

It hovered above them for a moment, actually visible. Imoen collapsed in shock. Along with the duergar, Khalid stared at it, his mouth hanging open. Irenicus displayed a brief burst of true emotion. Triumph, almost real happiness. It hung above them disembodied and confused, then hurtled like a paperclip to a magnet toward its natural home.

Freya was distracted from fighting Bodhi, listening intently to try and work out if what was happening upstairs was truly as bad as she feared. As her missing piece of soul reattached itself to the whole, she faltered. Her eyes closed and she dropped her swords, disorientated and confused. All of the memories that Imoen had accumulated while carrying the soul were merging with her own. When she opened her eyes again they glowed as Sarevok's had done, radiant gold, but she saw nothing.

Bodhi, who had been anticipating yet another agonizing death, could not believe her good fortune. She stripped the unresponsive Hero of her armour, amulets and swords. The vampire gathered them up, took them and hid them in the next room, then returned to bring the Hero to Irenicus. Only by then, Freya had recovered. A pair of golden jaws locked about Bodhi's throat and closed like a vice. Her neck crunched and she was gone in a cloud of dust.

The Hero blundered about trying to find her gear, but only succeeded in setting off traps and injuring herself. Imoen's screams were still echoing down the halls. Well, she didn't need swords or armour. The Hero had one weapon they could never take from her. It might be her last resort, but if there was ever a time for desperate measures, this was it.

Freya stumbled in the direction of the screaming, trying to ignore these disconcerting new thoughts. When Bhaal's stolen children first arrived in Candlekeep, Gorion had wiped all their memories apart from Sarevok's. A person born blind does not miss their sight, and he reasoned that they would not miss an intact soul if they could not remember their loss. Only now that she was whole again did she truly understand what her 'Dad,' the man she had spent her whole life Hero-worshipping, had done to her. What he had done to Imoen.

She had already known about his neglect, but suppressed thinking about it. Freya was her father's favourite. Now she remembered being Imoen and watching them play together, her heart bursting with jealousy. She remembered how she had grown up to neglect Imoen herself, never really giving the other girl much thought.

"I'm sorry Imoen," she muttered, groping her way through the dingy corridors. Freya remembered Imoen throwing herself at Khalid in Bridgefort, a situation she had helped bring about for her own thoughtless reasons. "Fuck, fuck. I'm so sorry."

She stumbled into the room where Irenicus stood with Imoen, Khalid and his duergar servants. The sight triggered Imoen's most recent memories. Even if they had not, Freya already had her fears and the smell confirmed it.

The memories, the pain and the feelings about so many people that were incompatible with her own. This fragment no longer belonged to her. These thoughts and experiences were not hers. The piece of soul was alien and though the sense of incompleteness would never leave her, it was too late now to merge back. Essence, glowing with the gold of Bhaal shimmered from Freya, back to Imoen.

The duergar were pointing and yelling. For the first time Irenicus turned and noticed her. Freya was panting. Her grip on the wolf had been weakening since her capture. An anaemic ghost of a smile played on his lips to see that she had been deprived of her weapons and armour. It vanished, however, when Bodhi failed to appear behind her.

Freya's remaining functional eye took in the scene. The duergar had their weapons drawn but dared not act without their master's permission. They hunkered malevolently into a corridor, awaiting instructions. Khalid, unarmed and haggard, was looking around for any chance to escape. His eyes kept darting to the weapons in the duergar's hands, thinking of snatching one. Imoen was slumped on the floor clutching her hands to her heart. With her slice of soul lost and returned to her, everything else she had endured paled to insignificance by comparison.

It was not insignificant to Freya. Irenicus's chilly smugness was the last straw. Fur was appearing against her will along her arms, her teeth lengthened, and a tail erupted from her hindquarters. At first her companions thought this was a good thing. Khalid's heart leapt with the hope of seeing Jaheira again.

"You will turn back!" insisted Irenicus, the faintest trace of alarm creeping into his emotionless tone.

"I can't..." the words came out as half-speech half-growl. Freya's final words before the change were directed to Imoen and Khalid. "I'm sorry."

Hope was replaced by dread. A blast of lightning hit the werewolf in the chest from Irenicus but it did no good. The pain was all consuming and forced an agonized, guttural wail, but torturing her did nothing to bring the human back. What started as a scream ended as a howl.

"TURN BACK!" Irenicus thundered.

"Stop!" begged Imoen hysterically. "Please stop, you're making it worse!"

Irenicus lowered his hands. The golden wolf was crouched down, shaking in the way it always did when human Freya was battling with her infected blood. After a minute or so the shaking stopped and the other occupants of the room relaxed slightly. Slowly, Freya looked up at her tormentor and fellow captives.

"Oh gods," breathed Imoen.

"What?" demanded Irenicus urgently. "What is it?"

"KHALID RUN!" screamed Imoen.

But there was nowhere to run, and no possibility of outpacing her. Khalid launched himself at the nearest duergar and managed to wrestle his sword from him. His fellows were too preoccupied with the werewolf to help him.

Having a weapon did not make much difference to Khalid. The wolf did not even bother to disarm him, letting Khalid hack at her hide without breaking the skin. Her jaws closed about his torso, oblivious to his screams and Imoen's wails. There was a crack of ribs breaking and blood flowed between her teeth and over her tongue. Finally the lycanthrope tasted the smell that had been driving her into a frenzy. She dropped Khalid who fell limply to the ground, meaning to eat him. Her teeth ripped a chunk from his face.

As she swallowed it, he tried to scramble back, sword out. The werewolf licked her chops but before she could take another bite, Imoen was standing between them. She couldn't bring herself to watch Khalid die or to hurt Freya. All she could do was plead with the werewolf and hope that Freya's love for her childhood friend would keep her from those jaws.

It didn't. As at full moon, the unexpected boldness of the pink-haired human confused the wolf, but that would not keep her from her prey for long.

"No!" cried Irenicus. If Imoen were to die the soul fragments would go to the Abyss. The Candlekeep Bhaalspawn's souls would be tethered and beyond his reach forever. Not only Freya's, his last hope for conquering Suldanessellar, but his backup Arowan's too. "I cannot permit you to harm Imoen. Stop now or I will be forced to destroy you."

Every holding incantation, pain and mind control spell he knew was thrown at Freya, but since defeating a dragon and a demon lord she had grown too powerful for that. He could kill her in an instant, but he needed her alive. Yet alive she was useless to him if she killed Imoen. Irenicus started to panic and began a new incantation, one he'd found amongst Gamaz's notes but never used.

The wolf pounced, eyes wild. Imoen squeezed hers shut, waiting for the end. There was a wet, ripping sound as loud as the wolf's howl. She felt its weight canon into her, knocking her flat and heard Khalid screaming his lungs out.

She waited for the teeth, but they never came. Something warm and wet was seeping through her clothes. Khalid was shrieking like a heretic in the afterlife. Even while being nearly eaten alive he had not made a noise like that. She opened her eyes, and at first thought that some creature must have escaped Avernus and been biding its time waiting for revenge.

A skinless dog-like creature was staring back at her. Its teeth were so long and exposed to the gums. Red and white streaks of muscle, fat and tendon ran in lines over its surface. The hellish beast was sweating blood. She was so thin without her coat, that Imoen did not recognize her. It was only when she saw the swollen, purple red bulge where her eye had once been that she realized, this was Freya.

The werewolf had leaped forward, her golden coat had not, and now it was suspended in the air several feet behind her.

"No…" Imoen cried, praying that it was a bad dream and willing herself to wake. Freya made a pitiful whimpering noise.

"Dam you for making me do that!" Irenicus cursed. "And you!"

He pointed a sickly, bolted finger at the duergar, who ceased gawping at Freya and sprang sharply to attention.

"Prepare a tank for the Bhaalspawn," he instructed. "We'll need to get her inside as quickly as possible. With any luck we have a few hours but if the shock kills her while you lot are dawdling, I'll do the same to you!"

"Master," wheedled one, "The only tank large enough contains your beholder, should we…?"

"To hells with the beholder!" Irenicus almost screamed. "Hurl it into the street with the garbage! Eat it for all I care! Just get Freya into a tank before she dies!"

"But my son and daughter died catching the beholder for you, master," the duergar persisted, unwisely. "You said it was important!" A crackle of flame sprang from Irenicus palm, and seconds later nothing remained of his servant but charred bones and a stench of burning bacon. None of the others raised any objection.

"Incompetence! I will do it myself," he snapped and strode from the room, leaving Imoen and Khalid with what remained of Freya.

Imoen was backing away and muttering incomprehensibly to herself. Her mind and soul were both shattered. Khalid, on the other hand, had ceased screaming. He was looking at the flayed werewolf, still alive and conscious. ' _Hours,'_ Irenicus had said she might survive for, but if he got her into one of those jars it could be months or years.

Freya turned her eye to him pleadingly. His jaw set, and he made his decision, though he knew what it would mean.

He lifted the duergar's short sword and with all his strength plunged it into Freya's neck. With no hide to block it, the weak weapon cut straight through. He yanked it out, and stood back in a shower of her blood. Imoen's murderous, agonized fury rang through the entire complex.

Then it was over. Freya's body exploded in a hurricane of golden dust.

The last thing Arrow saw in her dream was Imoen's silhouette, a shadow obscured by powdered gold, reaching for the sword to slay the man who had killed her Bhaalspawn. Far away in a small tent pitched just below a mountain snowline, the ranger woke up screaming.


	59. Feel no Fear

The last of the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn screamed and kept on doing so until her lungs ached too badly to continue. The face of the flayed werewolf was branded into her mind.

As the first shock wore off, Arowan began scrambling about her tent frantically. She pulled on her tunic, her armour and grabbed Corwin's bow. It was not only the most powerful she'd ever owned, it was also the best she had even seen. Yet it would be no use in her hands against Irenicus.

The ranger stumbled from her tent to greet a frosty morning, but she barely noticed the cold. She was more than a day's hike from anybody else. That was good. It meant she had a head start. Arrow hastily packed her belongings, hiding the ashes of her campfire under bracken and dirt. Her first thought was to run.

Freya, his preferred choice, was dead. Eric was dead. That meant that Irenicus would be coming for her next. In a daze she hoisted her pack and began to walk down the mountain, away from the villages. This mountain range and the valleys between them formed a vast wilderness. As a ranger, she could disappear into it, and how would he find her?

He had only learned of her and Freya's existence through Eric's dreams. The mad wizard had followed their brother's directions to reach them. There would be no more dreams. She was the last one. Let him weaken and die scouting these hostile mountains trying to find her!

Only… she had already been striding out into the wilds for an hour, when she paused. He had Khalid and Jaheira.

She collapsed suddenly on all fours and threw up into the leaf litter. It dawned on her that her father was very likely dead. Imoen's reaction to the demise of her soul donors had always bordered on violent insanity. That was _before_ all the horrific things that Irenicus had done to her. And if _she_ had not killed Khalid in retaliation for Freya's death, it seemed certain that Irenicus would.

In fact, death was the best-case-scenario. Irenicus had threatened to skin the duergar and put them in tanks if Freya died because of their slowness. Arrow could only imagine what punishment he would conjure up for the man who killed her on purpose.

What about Jaheira? Had he put her in a cage? Was she being tormented as Imoen had been, or losing body parts like Freya?

Freya! The image of the skinned wolf loomed in her head again and she let out an involuntary shriek. The horrible ripping sound as the fur came off played on repeat in her mind.

"I can't!" she whispered through her fingers, panicking. "I can't. No, no, no…"

The terror was going nowhere. Arrow sat there for hours as the pale sun rose higher in the sky. Soon even the woodland creatures stopped noticing she was there. A squirrel bounded an inch from her foot and little birds hopped around on the ground before her in search of worms. How she envied them.

Dead or alive, Khalid and Jaheira were down there in that dungeon. She had to go, and what would Irenicus do if he got to the village and she wasn't there? She was sure he would seek her there, her intention to go had never been a secret. Would he take his disappointment out on the villagers? She _had_ to go.

She couldn't go. Facing the man who did that to her sister doubtless meant subjecting herself to an equally hideous fate. He meant to do something with their souls. Even Ilmater could not ask her to sacrifice her own soul.

But he had her parents.

Arrow crouched, unable to make a decision. Neither bringing herself to go forward nor back. She buried her face into her hands, her fingers curling painfully into her hair. Yet there was no blocking it out. The memory of the skinless wolf grinned at her in the darkness.

Suddenly she leapt to her feet and began running from the village, down into a valley between two peaks, across it and up the next. She collapsed with exhaustion at the side of the mountain, feeling a worthless, terrified coward. With the last of her strength she assembled her tent. It was that or die of exposure on the mountainside.

As darkness gathered and she listened to the chirping of insects outside, it even crossed her mind that death might be preferable to capture. There were many ravines and ledges up these mountains. She could pick one and jump. Arrow did not want to die, but even this option was orders of magnitude less petrifying than what she had just watched Irenicus do to Freya.

He might do that to Khalid. Maybe he already had, and her father was pickling in one of those jars. What was she doing? She had to go back, she had to try. Yet when morning came after a fitful rest, her feet were unwilling to return to the villages and await Irenicus. She took her symbol of Ilmater and prayed to the crying god to give her the strength to do what had to be done. A light drizzle bounced off the tent canopy. The water would be turning the fallen leaves in the valleys nice and slippery. Finding her in this would be near impossible, even for a powerful wizard. She had a choice, but she was too afraid to make the right one.

"Forgive me Ilmater, I do not have the courage," she whispered desperately. "Please, help me."

Arowan opened her eyes, feeling no braver, but a solution had come to her. By the will of her deity, or by coincidence, her eyes drifted to her pack. She delved deep into its recesses where Gamaz's icy Numbing Potions had been lurking all this time.

She slipped one out, heart pounding. The little grey bottle throbbed in her hand with an unnatural, pulsating cold.

With these she would feel no fear of facing Irenicus, or of anything else. In fact she would feel nothing at all. Yet it was a dangerous thing to consider and she hesitated. They had turned Rasaad's brother, Gamaz, into a monster as wicked as Irenicus. Albeit a less powerful one. Eric, likewise, had done horrific things under their influence, only to die from withdrawal when they were taken away.

"But I'm going to die anyway if I give myself up," she whispered. "So why does it matter?"

Numbing potion addicts were like balls kicked out into space, with no feelings or empathy to alter their course or slow them down. So they pursued, relentlessly, the last things that had mattered to them.

In Eric's case this had been avoiding the afterlife. To this end he had tortured opponents in the Black Pits far more than Baeloth had ever required, to earn himself sponsors. Gamaz had wanted to become more powerful than his brother. In order to achieve this he joined the Dark Moon Cult and, among other things, attempted to make terrible weapons. His most memorable experiment had been to replace creatures' flesh with metal sheets to make sentient golems. It struck Arrow that Gamaz's notes on these experiments might have been where Irenicus acquired his flaying spell from. She had never heard of such an incantation before.

A cold hatred flared up inside her as she thought of Rasaad. He was out there searching for Alorgoth. The bastard had even left her to die, so that he could concentrate on avenging his brother. Avenge Gamaz! What a joke. Arrow wished that she could show Rasaad what she had just seen. Freya skinned alive, the product of his beloved brother's work.

"Would you make me like Gamaz and Eric?" she whispered, looking at the little potion. "What is important to me?"

The answer was simple. That the villages she was protecting go unmolested by Irenicus and the release of her parents from the compound. Was that all?

No, there was something else. The vision Ur-Gothoz had sent her through Dorn's sword, Rancor. The drow city in flames, the weeping cleric and those orphaned children fleeing into the Underdark with too few adults to protect and feed them. This was the future that only the Servant of all Faiths had the power to prevent, and helping her do so was important too. That last one, Arrow wisely realised, was the more dangerous of the three. Supposing she were to kill on Viconia's orders? The Chosen One was evil herself, after all.

"I'd be keeping her alive, not obeying her," Arrow said to herself. "And I'll never get the chance to anyway. I'll die in that dungeon. If Freya couldn't survive it, what chance do I have?"

Another wave of fear crashed over her. It was unbearable. She uncorked the Numbing Potion and drank.

"Now what? Oh… I see… Interesting."

A wonderful feeling of calm settled over her. She got up, dressed, piece by piece packed up her belongings and began the long trek back to the villages. This time she did not run, for wearing herself out would make the trip slower and risk trips or falls. An irrational thing to do.

It was strange not having feelings or drives to direct her actions, but also oddly liberating. For example, she was dimly aware that she was tired, but she no longer cared. She could walk unimpeded by fatigue until she made a decision that sleep at this point would make the overall journey more efficient.

When she reached the largest village, it turned out that Irenicus had not yet arrived. She sought out the mayor and instructed that runners be sent to every hamlet immediately. When the wizard turned up, they were to tell him that she would be waiting in the Dark Moon Temple.

"Of course, Arowan. Are… are you alright?" the mayor asked hesitantly. It was a strange request she had made and she seemed to be speaking oddly. She looked at him blankly with coffee-brown eyes and retied her wavy dark hair as she replied.

"Yes," she said mechanically. "If you resist him, he will kill you. If you are around when he finds me, he may kill you in an attempt to upset me. He knows where the abandoned temple is, he has been before. I will await him there."

"We're not going to just hand you to him!" cried the mayor.

"I will set up an ambush. I will be fine," Arowan lied automatically. The truth was not important. All that was required was that the villagers not be murdered. "Send him there. I will be waiting."

Gamaz's temple, which she had avoided up until this point, stirred no feelings in her now. On the way she passed the ridge where she had once fought an ice troll with Rasaad. They had camped in a nearby cave after, and she had fallen asleep in his arms. She cocked her head to one side and shook it at how strange she had been. Why had she ever imagined that love was important?

There were still ice trolls but her battle experience and new bow made short work of them. She had been afraid of them before, and afraid of this place. Why? She might have ended up being tortured and killed here, but pain and death were not important either.

Irenicus did not arrive at the temple for several days. It gave her time to explore. She meandered around the temple and the cultists' bunks, looking at their things. Most of the monks had been dragged away and eaten by wild beasts. Some of their frozen bodies remained where the party had slain them but she was indifferent to smells and gore by now. There was nothing on the upper levels that might help her free Khalid and Jaheira from their current prison.

"How tedious," she remarked, unfeelingly, and felt around the walls pressing panels and searching under pews until at last she found the passageway to Gamaz's workshop. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw the place in a newly objective light.

Without the blinkers of horror and pity, it was clear that a great deal of effort had gone into this workshop. There were notebooks by the cages. Most had their pages ripped out, but it would have taken semi-literate Arrow a lifetime to read them anyway. From what remained it seemed that most of the research had aimed to extend Gamaz's life, preserve or increase his physical strength or to make living weapons.

"All to make yourself stronger than Rasaad," she sneered. "What a waste of time."

Arowan could see why Irenicus found the work so interesting though. He was weakening and falling apart from some curse or ailment. She remembered the fingernail Imoen had found, but without revulsion. That knowledge might be something she could use later.

Also Irenicus had mentioned to Rasaad making a similar investment to this laboratory, which presumably was where her parents were now. If it was designed based on this, perhaps there were some of the same tools that could be used as weapons? Or maybe the same layout so that she could find her way out. She used the time to systematically memorize as much of what she was seeing as possible.

Eventually she pitched her tent on the ridge where Gamaz had fallen, the most obvious place. Easiest for Irenicus to find her. Every morning and night she drank a full bottle of Numbing Potion. It occurred to her soon after taking the first one that Eric had only done a few drops at a time, or a small swig. Even Gamaz hadn't drank a whole bottle all at once.

Perhaps what she had imbibed was more than the recommended dose, but trying to cut back was excruciating. She desisted. There was no point, she'd be dead soon in any case.

"Nothing left to find in the temple. Now what?" Arowan asked herself on the third day. "Protect the village. Find my parents. Sit here and wait for Irenicus. That was important... yes... that was very important..."

So sit and wait she did, rising every so often to eat, drink and answer nature's call. She had to take care of her body. If she died too soon Irenicus would punish the village. It was important that this not happen. Why was it important? That didn't matter anymore.

As the days wore on she went through the rituals of her faith, because why not? A small band of the villagers came to tell her that the wizard had not turned up and asked her tentatively when she would be coming back. She answered their questions truthfully and politely, including the part about how Freya had died. This led to them fleeing back down the slopes in panic. She remembered panic. It was quite interesting.

Another night, another day, and then he came.

"I gather from the villagers that I am expected. I take it then that through the chimera you witnessed what happened to Freya?"

"Yes. You let her die," replied Arrow, rising to her feet unflinchingly. "Clumsy."

Irenicus was taken aback by this response. The wretched weakling wasn't wrong. With Freya's soul, or even Eric's, he could have taken his revenge on Ellesime and ascended to the Seladrine. Whereas Arowan might possess enough trace of divine essence to prolong his mortal life. Maybe. Anger flared but he quickly regained his composure.

He would need to be careful with this one. No torturing the weakest Bhaalspawn nor performing unnecessary experiments. Arowan, after all, was his last chance. If he lost her too then he was doomed.

"A wise decision not to resist," he declared. "I cannot say this process will be pleasant, but your compliance will make things easier on you, I can promise you that."

"Are we going now?" she asked. "I have been waiting here for some time. It was growing… tedious."

Irenicus strode up to her. She blinked at him impassively. The ranger was as pale as death and her wavy hair was half-frozen to her head. He spotted some enchanted boots conferring cold resistance, but even so, he struggled to see how she could stand the icy temperature. Not so much as a shiver. It wasn't natural.

"You are not nearly as afraid as you should be," he observed shrewdly. "You could have run. A lone ranger in these mountains, it would have taken me months to find you. Maybe more. Yet you stayed here and waited for me. Why?"

Arrow cocked her head to one side, her face as expressionless as a marble statue. Her eyes seemed to focus several inches into the back of his head. Irenicus looked as though he had swallowed a hedgehog, because he knew that expression of old. It was the one Eric had always worn when he was doped up. After all the infernal bad luck he'd already endured with these Bhaalspawn, now even his back-up plan was an addict! He wanted to scream, and curse, and punish her, but it would have no effect. Arrow shrugged at him with infuriating indifference.

"Why not?"

_**~fin** _

_**Continues with Shank and Carbos are Dead** _


End file.
